


Strange Things Happen At The One Two Points

by lovebashed



Category: Ashlee Simpson - Fandom, Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, Tegan & Sara, The Sounds, The Used, ozzy osbourne - Fandom
Genre: 1930s, Bandom Big Bang, Carnival, F/M, Good and Evil, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Multi, Rape/Non-con References, bbb, the dustbowl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:58:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 79,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebashed/pseuds/lovebashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1930s. The Dust Bowl. Having no place to turn after his mother's death, Frank joins a carnival. By doing so a chain of events commence, that lead him to Pete. Frank and Pete couldn't be more different, but they both possess strange powers that gain momentum as their journeys unfurl. Both their lives, and that of those they know, will be irrevocably changed before the end. Carnivale AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Things Happen At The One Two Points

**Author's Note:**

> *This story is based on HBO's [Carnivàle](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0319969/), and the major plot points and some of the dialogue belong to the creator of the show Daniel Knauf and HBO. The title is a [Go](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go_%28game%29) proverb.
> 
> *Please note that Pete is the antagonist in this story, but also note that he is not evil by default, he's being led by ~The Powers That Be/faith/whatever you wanna call it, and his transformation is very gradual. Basically, he's the Devil's pawn and there's not much he can do about it.
> 
> *For those wondering about Tegan's sexuality: she is bisexual in the fic. She gets close with Bob for reasons explained in the story.
> 
> *Huge, huge thanks to everyone who has cheered me on and helped me along the way. Special thanks to turnyourankle for betaing this monster, for coming up with a summary when I couldn't manage to write one anymore, and for being my voice of reason throughout the writing process. I couldn't have done it without you. ♥
> 
> And an extra special thanks to my amazing mixers and artist who created gorgeous things for us all to see and hear ♥ See art [here](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/277092.html) and download the mixes [here](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/276896.html) on livejournal!
> 
> *Written in 2011.
> 
> *Originally posted on [livejournal](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/277491.html).

Frank's eyes sting from the dust that the wind keeps blowing in his face in torrents, and he breathes it in, fills his lungs with it until his mouth feels parched, grains of sand gritting between his teeth. The skin of his fingers is tight and hot, and there's a heavy pressure in his chest that he recognizes as regret.

The raspy sound of trucks rolling down the dirt road finally startles him out of his reverie. He's been staring into the emptiness for so long that when the distance suddenly shifts and one rattling truck after another comes into view it takes him a while to realize they're not just an extension of his imagination.

It's easy to imagine all the happy colors they were once painted: reds, yellows, greens and oranges, even though every painted surface is worn out and faded now, dust-blown just like the rest of the world. Frank's only ever seen a real carnival once in his life, when he was just a scrawny little kid, but he still remembers it like it was yesterday. He remembers struggling against his mother's vice-like grip as the trucks drove by their house, wanting to run alongside the slowly moving trucks and to follow them to the end of the world.

That same feeling hums inside him even now from memory, and he glances down at the sheet-covered lump on the ground by his feet, overwhelming guilt washing over him.

"Sorry, ma," he murmurs as the trucks come to a halt.

 

\--

 

It’s still early when Frank wakes up. He’s spent the night under the belly of Brian's truck, craving for the fresh night air but needing shelter from the wind, which the truck provided. He's had an odd dream that he can't really remember, but the little he does, he'd like to forget.

Struggling to sit up, he bangs his head in the underside, sparks of color exploding behind his closed eyes.

"Mother _fuck_."

It's the second day in August, eight days since his mama passed away and as many days since Brian took him under his wing. If his mother had known what kind of people would be burying her, she would have held onto her life with more determination. But Frank likes Brian all right. At least when Brian isn’t besieging him with questions that he doesn't quite know how to answer.

But Frank knows Brian is a good guy. All through the funeral he kept his hand on Frank's shoulder, not saying one word against his mother when Frank removed the sheet, embarrassed that she was still clutching her big wooden cross in her death-stiff hands, and just knowing that if she was alive she would have made her opinion of Brian and his crew painfully clear.

But no. Brian just patted Frank on the shoulder and then barked orders at everyone, and it's thanks to him that his mama had a graceful burial with singing and real flowers, women in white pearls and black veils by the graveside. If nothing else, it was much more than Frank could have ever done for her, and he is forever grateful.

Afterwards, he was hauled into a trailer and told to sleep his sadness away. He remembers Lindsey bringing him a jug of water and a towel, placing the jug on the floor by the bed and gently washing away the dust from his face and neck, behind his ears, while Frank fought against the tears that threatened to fall.

The gramophone on the table played the kind of songs that his mother used to listen to every Sunday after church. They made him ache all over but comforted him all the same, the melodies cradling him, curling around him, and after Lindsey left he cried hot tears into a silky pillow and let the raspy sounds lull him to sleep.

He must have slept for hours; when he finally woke up they were already miles away.

Frank sprawls on the ground awake for a few hours, lost in his thoughts. He's waiting for the sun to climb up over the hill and for people to wake up. He still doesn't know why these people took him with them, but he can't help but feel that his new life is already somewhat of an improvement from his old one. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone, least of all Brian.

"Penny for your thoughts," Bob says, startling Frank. He's kneeling by Frank's side with his hands crossed and tucked against his stomach, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Frank runs his sand-smelling hands over his face and rubs the embarrassing wetness from his eyes, hoping Bob hasn't caught on.

"Just, y'know," he says vaguely enough.

"Uhuh." Bob's voice is gruffy, like he has grains of sand in his throat, and he's shaking his head, giving Frank a pointed look. "Thinky-time's over now, kid," he grunts and stands up, raking a hand through his hair. "Get some food and then get to work. We've got a long day ahead. No time to be wasted on thinking."

Frank stares at Bob as he strides to the tables where people are already gathered around to set up breakfast. Bob never seemed too happy with the idea of Frank joining their caravan, not like the others were.

With one last glance at the rusty belly of the truck Frank rolls away from the cool shadow onto burning ground -- the sun's already high in the sky -- and pushes up, wiping his hands clean on the back of his dungarees.

He catches Tegan's eye and wishes that he wasn't blushing. She's hanging up clothes to dry in a silky, pigment blue dress that doesn't reach far enough to cover her knees. She pulls a strap up over her shoulder and winks at Frank, blowing him a kiss. It's sweet, even when she's messing with him, but Frank doesn't feel like humoring her and catching the kiss this time. Instead, he presses his head down and walks past her with a fast pace, hands balled into tight fists inside his pockets.

Brian makes Frank sit at his table, ushering Bob away. Frank keeps his jaw set as he watches Bob sulk past him, just knowing he'll pay for that later, knees deep in the shittiest job Bob can think of for him.

"Sit down, soldier," Brian speaks with a lopsided grin. "Make yourself comfortable."

Frank shrugs and takes Bob's seat, feeling every bit like the asshole Bob thinks he is. "Thanks.”

Brian waves at Butcher to catch his attention, then motions at the food and their table, and they sit and wait as Butcher scoops up eggs and bacon onto two plates and brings them over.

"Nothing like the smell of bacon first thing in the morning."

"I don't really eat meat," Frank says, poking at his eggs. The yolk wobbles under the fork.

"'That like a... religious thing?" Brian asks, and wolfs down his slice.

Frank's plate is a slaughterhouse of mushy, destroyed eggs and bacon. If there's a religion that tells you not to eat meat he might want to join it; then again, he has first-hand experience with religious lunatics, so maybe not after all. "S'more like a meat making me feel ill thing," he concludes, hating that his ears are burning now, like that's something he should be embarrassed about.

Brian just shrugs and leans over the table to steal from his plate.

"More for me."

When Brian's plate is empty and half of Frank's eggs are churning in his stomach, Brian pulls out a worn pack of smokes from his pocket and tosses it on the table between their plates. Frank eyes at the pack suspiciously and tries not to think about how much he's been jonesing for a cigarette lately. The pack is forest green and has a deep red circle in the middle, Lucky Strike written on it in block letters.

Brian's smirking like Frank's an open book as he nudges the pack closer. "It's yours," he says, but when Frank tries to reach for it, he presses his finger tight against the body of the pack and doesn't let him snatch it.

Frank grumbles, resigned as he pulls back his hand. "What's the catch?"

"You tell me something about yourself that's worth the pack," Brian states, pulling out one cigarette, placing it between his lips. "Or you could tell me smaller stuff for one cig a story," he negotiates.

"I already told you," Frank says, following Brian's hand as he's shaking an equally worn matchbox until a match falls on the flat of his hand. He scrapes the match on the table's edge and brings the flame up in the cup of his palm. "There's nothing to tell. I grew up taking care of mom and the house. She got sick from the dust and died six months later. And then I got hijacked by you people." Self-consciously, Frank covers the small tattoo on his wrist with the palm of his hand.

Brian glares at him and smoke surges from his mouth and nostrils. This is what a bull must look like when some jerk waves a red cloth in its face. "Stop bullshitting me," he says. "I know you've got a story to tell, and something tells me it's worth a whole lot more than this pack of cigarettes." He pulls back and stands up, the cigarettes disappearing in the front pocket of his dusty jeans. "I suggest you start telling it before I'm all out, kid. Then your story ain't worth even that."

Frank scowls at Brian's retreating back, jealous for the trail of cigarette smoke curling above his head and thinning against the bright sky. He's itching for a smoke now more than ever. Even though he doesn't know much about Brian, he knows that it takes more than that to fool him. But Frank's also not ready to pour his heart out to anyone, not even to the people who gave him a new life, and he doubts that he ever will be.

More people are lining up for breakfast now, and Frank spends the last of his free time observing them. He realizes the stretch on his face is a genuine smile when he watches Gerard struggling to balance two full plates and mugs in his arms while trying not to step on the carnie puppy that's circling his legs and yapping excitedly, begging for scraps. It doesn't take long for Bob to come to Gerard's rescue. He grabs the plates from Gerard, all smiles and suggestive body language that Gerard seems oblivious to. Frank snorts when the pup attaches himself to Bob's legs instead.

An hour later Bob sends Frank off to clean the supply trailer. The lonely one under the withered tree by the road. "You can't miss it," he grins, patting Frank on the back. The leathery support strap around his wrist makes a slapping sound against Frank's shoulder, reminding Frank of the times his mama slapped him around the ears or the back of his hand for being naughty. Frank has asked him about it a few times, but all he's ever gotten for an answer is a dismissive grunt and more work to occupy his ‘all too peaceful’ days. "You have enough time to trouble yourself with my well-being, you have too much time altogether," Bob's said.

Frank walks through the carnival, saying a few hellos to the rousties, watching them setting up tents and fixing up the paint on a few well-used posters depicting the Turtle Man, the Boneless Man and the Bearded Woman, Victoria.

Loud, raspy French music catches his interest, and he tries to look as casual as ever when he peeks through the tent opening, blinking a few times while he waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark lighting. Tegan, Sara and Lindsey are up on the stage practicing for the night's show, sashaying and swirling with so much panache that Frank is transfixed on the spot. They're in white brassieres and underskirts, doing some complicated-looking choreography where the sisters dance together in the background and Lindsey bends her back so close to the stage floor that Frank is afraid that her spine will snap like a twig, but he’s fascinated by her. Jimmy finds him looking and says, with a controlled smirk, “If you want a show then you have to wait for the evening and pay good money like all the other pervs.”

Frank frowns because he refuses to be intimidated by anyone, least of all Jimmy. Jimmy is a smart man, sharp and loud-mouthed, a gambler and a thief. As the manager of the cooch show Jimmy lures men inside the tent with promises of a grand ol' time, then cashes in on their last cents and pennies while Lindsey and the Quin sisters striptease on the stage. Sometimes, when the cashbox glares empty, Jimmy plays a few well-practiced tricks on the guys like he did last night with the old camera lens.

Frank had watched Jimmy taking the crowd, the back of his neck sweat-slick and his lungs full of hot, oppressive air. Brian had put him on crowd patrol, which meant that he was to make sure none of the Okies attacked the girls while they were dancing. The girls had finished their thing a while ago, and were in their dressing room getting ready to take in customers for a private show, but Jimmy didn't want anyone to leave yet. There was still more to come. He talked fast and easy, making the guys think they were something special, like this was once-in-a-lifetime kind of deal.

"Because, gentlemen, only a select few," Jimmy paused, crouching down to pick up a small box in his hands. He opened the lid and continued over the murmur of the crowd, "Only a select few ever get a chance to see something this rare. Oh, I'm telling you, fellas, it'll make you cream your panties for sure."

He presented a small, round device with a lens in the middle, claiming that peeking through the glass one would be able to see the scandalous pictures of Jenny Lewis that the Administration had banned in all the forty-eight states earlier that year.

Frank scowled at the men, but he knew there were no pictures. His head was heavy from the stuffy air and all he wanted was to be outside in the crisp night, to get away from the throng of the tent. He watched as men upon men threw money on the stage and competed with each other for one peek through the magical lens.

Frank had had a hard time trying to pacify the irritated crowd when the truth finally dawned on them. By then Jimmy was long gone.

He shrugs out of Jimmy's reach. ”I’ll ask Brian to put me on crowd patrol again if I feel like watching the girls,” he tells Jimmy. Jimmy doesn't need to know that he'd rather dig the dirt for a new outhouse than spend another night surrounded by a smelly mass of horny, dirty geezers.

He takes one last look at the girls, mostly just to rile up Jimmy some more, before he continues his way past more tents and carnie folk, towards Bob's supply trailer. Lindsey's standing on the ledge of the stage, smiling at him.

Some small part of Frank is surprised to find the trailer where Bob said it’d be. Another part of him is wary to step in. The trailer is dingy and derelict, and Frank has to throw rocks at the vultures sitting on the branches of a lone tree before he dares to venture inside. Vultures make him nervous, they're the first sign of death in the desert.

A gust of warm air smelling like mold, dust and spices hits Frank in the face when he steps inside. As he closes the door, the air stands still like a wall, flecks of dust floating in the stripe of light from the window. He looks around and shivers, already hating the place. A thick layer of dust blankets the floor from corner to corner; only Frank's own footprints give an indication of a visited space. It's like no one's been here for ages.

Frank looks around, not sure anymore what he's supposed to be doing, the thought of cleaning up the trailer feels less significant by the second.

Resigned, he picks up a dirty rag from the shelf and swats it around, watching as dust flakes swirl in the close air.

An hour passes and Frank finds himself sitting on the floor, a box of photographs between his legs. He chuckles at the odd people, clearly circus folk from the beginning of the century. He pockets the one he likes the best and rests his head on the trunk he's been using as a backrest, closing his eyes.

 

\--

 

There are four people in the diner: Frank by the counter, the waitress behind it, and two men in old military jackets dining in a booth by the window.

The door slams open in a gust of wind and a minister walks in. He's dressed in a black, tight-fitting cassock that flows and trails on the floor as he walks. He looks around with an air of serenity, nodding at the couple drinking wine in the burgundy booth by the windows but doesn't talk to them. He bunches the hem of his cassock in his fist and sits down on the bar stool at the counter. He hooks his feet around the chair legs and picks up the menu, scanning it with no real interest. The white collar around his neck is spotless like fresh snow.

Frank glances at the waitress in a pale yellow work dress and a dirty-white apron, blond hair tucked inside a black hairnet with meticulous care. She places two cups on the counter, one for Frank, the other one for the minister. Frank watches through a mirror on the wall as the couple toasts in their booth, cheap glasses clinking like cowbells. Coffee trickles into Frank's cup from the pot in the waitress's grip just as heavy wind outside grabs the door and bangs it shut again. Behind the windows dry dust swirls in the air. The waitress turns to the minister, cocks her pot just enough for the burning black coffee to start pouring into his cup. She looks at Frank and opens her mouth, lips red like rose petals.

"Every prophet in his house."

 

\--

 

Pete wakes up with a gasp, his nightshirt sticking to the sweaty skin of his back. He rolls over and mushes his face into the pillow, trying to clear his head from that bleary half-dreaming, half-awake state. Ashlee's pacing downstairs, the click of her heels loud on the parquet. The radio gets switched on, and Pete lounges in his bed for awhile listening to Ashlee's steps and the music.

They meet up with Mr. Simpson for breakfast in the diner before going to church. Inside Pete remembers his dream and amuses himself for a while scoping out the diner, looking for similarities. The mirror on the wall, the waitress in yellow, the round coffee pot. But they're all truisms, he could find them in every diner in the country.

Joe says, "The papers are full of Joe DiMaggio today."

"Did you listen to the game?" Pete asks as Ashlee pulls him down beside her. He had been zoning out again.

"I'm afraid I may have dozed off somewhere in the middle," Joe admits and Ashlee leans over the table and squeezes his shoulder.

"Good old daddy," she laughs.

"I caught the last of it," Pete says, twisting his head to look at the picture on the paper. It's upside-down but he can still make out Joe DiMaggio posing with his bat and the trophy, the rest of the team scattered around him.

"Well I don't see the appeal of the game," Ash says, dipping her spoon in the coffee, melting the lump sugar she added from the glass jar. "And to celebrate this one man like he was our Good Lord and Savior --"

"But that's the beauty of it, princess," Joe interrupts. His looks are almost boyish when he gets excited. "Your brother knows it,” he adds, wagging his teaspoon in Pete’s direction, giving him a pointed look. “Every morning we get to read about new disasters: grown men choking up on all this dust, women dying in childbirth, their babies starving to death. Farmers losing their crop for drought. In desperate times, the Lord looks over the flock and chooses one man to inspire the multitudes, one man to accomplish the impossible, one man to offer hope where there's only hopelessness. Who are we to judge the wisdom of the Almighty? He chooses His servants as He sees fit and gifts them with talents; it's a grave sin to bury them in the earth.

"These times -- these people -- need heroes. _America_ needs heroes." He turns the paper around and taps at DiMaggio's head with a stubby finger. "They've just found one."

Ash clasps her hands together and beams, all doubt vanished from her pretty face. "Amen, daddy!"

"Amen," Pete repeats, staring at the image.

Pete’s migrant church –still just a small tent put up outside of the town’s Baptist church where Joe holds fort -- is packed with people and the amount of new faces makes Pete feel powerful, like everyone in the world has come to hear his sermon.

He reads a chapter from the New Testament that talks about forgiveness and asks for benevolence from his audience. They all sing together while Ashlee walks around the aisles with the collection basket. "We don't have much," he’d said, "But we give from the little we do have."

Some days he sits in the living room with the radio on, Ashlee's leg following the rhythm of the music from her rocking chair while she sips her coffee, and he wonders if Joe had been right about his calling after all. But then people seek him out after his sermons and thank him for bringing them hope, and for changing their lives, and then Pete can't think of anything more rewarding than this.

The taste of the communion wine still lingers on his tongue when Ashlee walks through the tent opening into his make-do office space. "Peter, I'd like to introduce you to Miss --?"

"Hayley Williams, ma'am." A pretty, young lady peers over Ashlee's shoulder, her eyes bright even as she emits a nervous energy. Her face is pleasant but dirty, hair sand-dyed and in a messy bun on the back of her neck.

"Ah, of course," Ashlee smiles, her arm around Hayley's shoulders now as she leads her into the room. "Her family traveled here all the way from Franklin, Tennessee, can you believe that?"

"Is that so?"

Hayley smiles cutely, hesitating before she steps forward and grabs Pete’s hand, squeezing hard as she shakes it. "We're farmers but the drought has taken most of our jobs," she brings the knot of their hands up to her chest like in prayer. "What you said back there, that -- that our Lord would reward our patience and faith with fertile ground, verdant valleys and food for everyone --"

"He will," Pete says. "But right now we just hang on, take each day as it comes and thank God and our neighbors for the alms we receive."

Hayley jerks away like she’s been burned and shakes her head, staring at the floor.

Ashlee touches Hayley's shoulder and she jumps a little like a startled animal. "Can I treat you to a cup of coffee, Miss Williams?"

"I -- p-please," Hayley stutters, voice suddenly raspy. Remembering herself, she hastens to add, "thank you. And it's just H-Hayley."

"Hayley," Ashlee smiles. "Peter?"

"Coffee sounds awesome," Pete says, and Ashlee nods and walks away.

"Are you alright?" he asks when Hayley starts shaking like a leaf.

She looks up, scared, her hand flying to her throat. "Wh-what?" She starts coughing and spluttering, so hard that her knees buckle. Pete catches her before she hits the floor.

"Hayley?" Pete demands as her coughs worsen. In a matter of seconds coins start pouring out of her mouth. She coughs them up and vomits them to the ground. They gush from her mouth like water from a cascade. "Shit! What did you do, Hayley? _Hayley_?"

"I'm sorry," she cries and then vomits more coins. "We've just been so --" more coins, "-- so hungry!"

"Did you steal from the collection basket?"

She cries out as a couple of coins come up bloody to the ground.

Pete pulls her against his chest and takes her hands into his. "Pray with me, Hayley. Come on, repent. Repent!"

 

\--

 

"Where the hell have you been all fucking day?" Brian's exasperated voice drills into Frank's brain, worsening his headache. "We really needed your help today."

"I was cleaning up that motherfucking supply trailer," Frank says, slowly making his way to Brian. It took him all day and now he's aching in places he didn't even know existed. He hacks up a lung, dust tickling in his throat.

"What are you talking about? What trailer?" Brian demands.

"The goddamn supply trailer Bryar told me to dust."

"Frank, we don't have a supply trailer," Brian says, then sweeps his hand over his face, breathing out a long, suffering sigh. "That's an old rookie prank, sending the new guy out to clean some trailer that doesn't exist," he speaks into his palm, and Frank just stares at him blankly. "The guys had a laugh at you."

Frank blinks. "But the trailer's there." He digs the photo from his pocket. "Look, I even took this from one of the boxes I was sorting out."

Brian frowns and grabs the photo from him. It's of a young boy in rugged clothes, standing by a Ferris wheel and staring at the camera with a blank face.

"You got this from the trailer?" Brian sounds unconvinced.

"Where the hell else would I -- Christ, just. I'll show you, okay?"

"Fine," Brian says, like it physically pains him to humor Frank. "Show me your magical trailer."

They stop by the tree with the branches heavy with vultures. It looks the same it did hours before with the exception that the trailer is gone. "I don't get it," Frank says, circling the tree: there aren't even any wheel marks or shoe prints anywhere he can see.

Brian's tapping his foot against the ground, the epitome of impatience.

"Well?"

"It was here. Right here," Frank says a little hysterically, thinking maybe he's losing his mind.

"Right," Brian drawls. "Okay."

"Did Bryar fucking move the trailer?" It sounds a little far-fetched even to him, but nothing else makes sense.

Brian's mouth twitches and he lets out a guffaw. "Nice going, Frank, you almost had me going for a sec, good job. Now stop dicking around and wasting my time, it's almost sundown," he adds more soberly. "So far I haven't seen you being of any real use to me. Don't make me regret taking you in."

Frank would like to remind Brian that he hadn't asked to be taken in, and that he doesn't appreciate being treated like a stray dog, but he doesn't see the point. No matter which way he looks at it, the truth is that back at the farm there was nothing left for him anymore. Ma being sick was the sole reason for him staying so long. But now, having to take care of the farm by himself, he wouldn't even know where to start. He never was much good at growing things. Being on the move suits him just fine.

"I don't know where you got this from," Brian says, handing back the photo. "And I care even less." He's looking at Frank like he's got something useful to add, but then just says, "I got a fucking business to run."

Back at the camp Frank hides from Bob who's busy getting the carousel up and working. He hops onto a wooden box and peeks into a trailer through the misty window, realizing it’s the girls' dressing room -- they're painting their eyes and lips in the yellow light gushing from the bulbs framing the mirrors -- the flick of a thin wrist and the silk of their gowns lulling, comforting, until Jimmy's voice sounds somewhere too close for comfort. He doesn't feel like getting caught watching the girls twice in one day, not even to rile up Jimmy.

He walks around without much of a purpose while the carnival slowly rises from the dust.

After a while, Saporta calls him over, needing help with his snakes, so Frank picks up a twig-wound basket -- surprisingly heavy -- and follows Gabe into his tent. "Thanks man," Gabe grins, taking the basket from Frank. "That's the King Cobra. Most people I know won't go ten feet closer to him."

"If they were spiders, you'd be on your own."

"Ah," Gabe nods. "Then I'm lucky spiders don't make for good charmees... Or, I don't think they do?"

"See you around, Gabe," Frank gives him a grin, Gabe's happy-go-lucky attitude rubbing off on him.

When the evening rolls around the carnival is a hodgepodge of color, lights and noise. The smell of sugar, grease and smoke is everywhere.

Brian's truck is parked behind a tent and Frank hops on the back of it, swinging his legs back and forth as he watches Bob tending to the Ferris wheel close by.

What a sight the carnival must be from space, like a glow-worm in the middle of a giant sandpit. He looks up and sees the stars and wonders if there's anyone up there looking down on them.

This is the moment everyone's been looking forward to all day. These past eight days he's seen the carnival up and running just once before, everything's still full-on shiny to Frank, and he can't imagine that the novelty will ever completely wear off. In this moment he can't think of a better place to be.

Gerard hops onto the truck after a while, bumping Frank's arm with his elbow as he gets comfortable. "Hey, man. I saw you sitting alone from the window of my trailer."

"Shouldn't you be telling fortunes?" Frank asks.

"Mikey's -- uh, he's kind of giving me the silent treatment," Gerard pouts.

Frank likes Gerard's presence a lot. Sitting with Gerard is a hell of a lot nicer than sitting alone anyway, so he plays it cool and doesn't point out that Mikey can't talk, even though the thought is on his tongue.

"It's a little embarrassing, to be honest. I tried to read this man's cards for him without Mikey's help and I couldn't come up with anything. So then I panicked and ended up telling him he's gonna find some big treasure in the near future and that his best friend'll try and steal it from him," Gerard laughs. "Talk about cliché. And Mikey just lay there and let me make a fool of myself."

"Well at least you didn't tell him he's gonna die a horrible death or something shitty like that," Frank reasons.

Gerard looks serious. "God, no, you don't mess with shit like that unless you're fuckin' sure about it. Even Mikey doesn't predict peoples' deaths unless he knows how to prevent them from happening."

"He can see that stuff?" Frank's wondered about Mikey ever since he first met him. It had been awkward, Mikey lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling while Gerard tried to explain that his kid brother wasn't a fucking vegetable.

"Oh, yeah," Gerard's smile is a little sad, Frank realizes, like Mikey's been through more than anyone should in a lifetime. "He just -- knows things, I guess."

"He sounds real special."

"He's the best," Gerard says at once, like there's no possibility of it being anything but true. The way Gerard talks about Mikey makes Frank long for a big brother of his own.

Out of the corner of his eye Frank notices Gerard studying him. "When you said that Mikey knows things," Frank starts, glancing at Gerard, "he said anything about me?"

Gerard gives a laugh, patting Frank on the back. "Stop freaking out, man. He'd have to see your cards first."

"I wasn't freaking out," Frank makes a face, elbowing Gerard in the ribs.

"You totally were," Gerard grins, then leans in and says more seriously, "Why you were freaking out though, that's what I wanna know."

"I wasn't freaking out," Frank glares, realizing that he'd been rubbing at the tattoo on his wrist only when Gerard's fingers pry his hand away.

Frank tries to snatch his hand back but Gerard's holding onto it with both of his, not letting go. He studies the tattoo for a while, running his thumb over it, and says, "The number of the beast," looking like he's trying to hold back a grin.

"Shut up, asshole," Frank says, twisting his arm in Gerard's grip. "It's not... I'm not a fucking Satanist, okay?"

"I didn't think you were," Gerard says and gives Frank his hand back. "And you can keep your secrets for now. I bet by the end of the year you've told me most of them."

Frank laughs because Gerard's tone is playful rather than threatening. "You sound so sure of yourself."

"I know! It's pretty amazing considering it's me."

"I bet you've got like, air-poisoning," Frank reasons. "You've been baking in your trailer all day, the fresh air's making you all... loopy."

"Ha ha," Gerard says dryly. "I was keeping Mikey company. Or at least trying to."

"Why's he mad at you anyway? The way you talk about him -- he should be happy to have a big brother like you."

Gerard shrugs, and Frank's almost positive that he's blushing behind all that hair.

"It's nothing, seriously. It's silly."

"It's something," Frank presses.

Gerard glances at Bob with an odd look on his face, his neck flushed pink, and Frank finds himself suddenly burning to know what’s going on between those two.

"Mikey seems to think," Gerard starts, then laughs and shakes his head. "You know what? Forget it. He won't even remember being mad at me in the morning."

Frank sighs but lets Gerard off the hook for now, after all, Gerard didn't pressure him about the stupid numbers on his wrist.

"You smoke?" Gerard asks, pulling out a wrinkly pack from the inside of his jacket.

"God yes," Frank enthuses. He watches as Gerard jiggles the pack until a cigarette drops onto his palm.

"It's my last one so we'll have to share," he says apologetically, placing the cig between his lips.

"Seriously not a problem," Frank says, gums itching with just the thought of smoking again.

Shadows lick at Gerard's face as he brings a burning match up to the cigarette and cups his palm against it. He takes a long drag and smiles, staring into distance, then after what feels like fucking forever he passes the cig to Frank.

"Christ." Frank breathes the smoke in for a while and then plucks the stick from his mouth, rolling it gently between his fingers.

Gerard's laugh rumbles from his chest and Frank can feel the sound tickling over him like a caress. "You look like you're having a religious experience."

"Oh, yeah," Frank says with a giddy voice. "Smoking's my only true religion."

They sit in silence for a while, sharing smoke and space, watching the flood of people surging into tents and rides, listening to the tinny gramophone melodies drifting from a tent nearby, loud yells and cheers and children laughing everywhere. The wind ruffles the hairs on the back of Frank's neck, and he sighs, the tension he’s been carrying around all day finally easing up.

"These people in these towns," Gerard's voice is quiet and close, “they're asleep. All day at work, at home, they're sleepwalkers. We wake them up."

He nods at the Ferris wheel where Bob's lifting a small, crippled girl into one of the seats, leaving her dad and her small cart waiting for her by the ticket stand. He shakes his hands, rubbing his wrist under the support strap for a second before he grins and clinks the safety bar closed, arranging the kid's hands so that they're wrapped tightly around it.

"Now hold on tight and say hi to the man on moon for me, sweetheart," he calls after her as he pushes the ride into motion.

Watching her whooshing up into the starry sky, Frank rubs a thumb against the tightness in his chest and blinks away the sting of the smoke from his eyes. Next to him Gerard is still smoking, face warm and relaxed like he's completely at peace with himself and the people around him. This, Frank decides, is what makes life worth it all.

On the next morning Brian sends Gerard away to get some supplies. "Take somebody with you if you want," he says, tossing Gerard the keys to his truck.

"Wanna come?" Gerard asks Frank at once. Frank's been sitting in the doorway to Gerard and Mikey's trailer all morning, listening to the brothers conversing. Gerard was right: with a little bit of brotherly teasing, Mikey seemed to acknowledge Gerard's presence again.

When Gerard talks to Mikey it's like he's performing a weird monologue. It's fascinating to follow, especially when Gerard is quiet but everything in his body language still suggests that he hasn't stopped talking to his brother. Frank is starting to realize that they don't need spoken words at all, that they are there just for Frank's benefit, a friendly gesture that says that he's not intruding. Sometimes Frank is uncertain whether Gerard is the one asking him questions about his life or if it's Mikey prompting him.

Frank's about to reply to Gerard when Bob jogs up to them, grabs the keys from Gerard's hand and grins winningly. "Schechter wanted you to go into town? I was thinking I could keep you company since we're not moving anywhere until tomorrow. It gets a little boring here during the day."

"Oh," Gerard says, looking helplessly at Frank. "Actually --"

"You guys go ahead," Frank jumps in. He doesn’t feel like getting in the middle of a possible argument right now. "I was looking forward to a day of leisure, anyway," he gets up and stretches his back, then turns to leave, amused by Bob's triumphant face: it's kind of cute.

"Oh, and Gee," he adds, because he just can't resist an easy tease. "Thanks for last night!" His grin grows wider when he glances at Bob's perplexed face. "Seriously, man. That was amazing, I owe you one!"

He bursts into a fit of giggles by the fields, not able to hold it in anymore. He takes his time to come down from his fit, wiping his eyes and taking in his surroundings. Sunflowers grow strong and luxuriant here, even though it hasn't rained in months. The buzz of energy is easy to feel when he gets closer to the fields; there's a lot of life here.

The fields stretch out far and wide on either side of Frank and up on the hill on the other side is a house, a little girl sitting in her cart in the yard.

Frank crosses over, marveling at the yellow flowers almost brushing up against his neck, and climbs the gentle slope all the way up to the top of the hill, stopping by the girl.

"Don't I know you?" he asks, brushing strands of hair from his sweat-slicked forehead.

"Are you one of them carnie folk?" she asks, staring up at him with shining eyes.

Frank thinks about it. Is he? Can he talk about himself as one? And does he even want to? How long will it take to absorb the spirit of the carnival? He doesn't know where he belongs anymore, doesn't know what purpose he has. "Yeah," he says though, because she doesn't need to hear about his issues. It's close to truth anyway. "You're that kid from the Ferris wheel," he adds and she brightens up, nodding her head enthusiastically.

"I was so high up I thought I could touch the stars!" she beams.

Frank grins, he remembers being a kid once. "What's your name?"

"Laura."

"Hi, Laura," he says, kneeling down. Her position in the cart looks uncomfortable but she doesn't even seem to notice. He looks at her legs, her knees are turning inwards, thin layer of skin stretching over her crooked bones.

"Were you always like this?" She just stares at him so he adds, searching her eyes, "Not able to walk?"

"Yup," she says, frowning at her knees. "I think they're wrong somehow. I don't think legs are s'posed to be like this." It's like she's waiting for his confirmation and Frank is at a loss.

He presses his face into his knees and concentrates on the steady hum of energy everywhere around them. It's inside the girl and him, too, and it flows through every flower in the field. It's innocuous and life-affirming, and Frank is soaking it in, pulling it away from the field, from the thousands and thousands of flowers, from their stems and roots.

"Don't be scared," he says, gripping the girl's legs with both of his hands as he forces the energy into her bones, shaping and stretching and straightening them, feeling them changing under his palms.

He's shaking when it's over, cold sweat running down his back. It's been years from his last time, but he doesn't remember it taking this much out of him ever before.

Standing up, he wipes his face on his sleeve and flashes her a weak smile, turning around to leave.

"What's your name?" the girl yells after him, cocking her head to the side.

"Frank," Frank says softly, mostly to himself.

Stumbling down the fast dying sunflower fields, brown, dried up stems get crushed under his shoes. Memories of his mama flash through his eyes. She's yelling at him to stay back, to not touch her, calling him Godless and Devil while holding her cross in front of him, coughing up blood on the white linen pillow.

He turns around and notices that the cart is empty, and he stops for a while to watch the girl running along the edge of the field with stiff legs that she’s just learning to use, chasing after yellow sunflowers that are drying out, turning brown before her eyes.

 

\--

 

Ashlee's rocking her chair to the slow tunes playing on the radio. She's removed her stockings and opened her blouse a little, moaning about the California sun, but Pete's still getting chills when he thinks about Hayley spewing coins on the floor.

She's making afternoon coffee in the kitchen now; she'd been almost in tears when Ashlee offered her a simple housemaid's job. "It's a big house," she'd said with that southern hospitality of hers, not even a glance in Pete's direction. "I wouldn't say no to a little bit of help around here." Hayley's voice was grating and painful to listen to when she cried out in joy, thanking her.

Sticking his thumbs into his eye sockets, Pete tries to massage the stress of the day away, his head pounding. At this rate his migrant parish will start requiring a bigger setting sooner than Pete thinks it's possible to arrange. Each day new people keep traveling into town like swarms of locusts, destructive in size. The migrants need a place to feel welcome in, a place of peace and self-study and prayer, and it’s Pete’s responsibility to find them one.

"You're very quiet today," Ashlee comments. She's fanning her face with her hand and looking at him with intent, searching for something in his eyes. "Did something happen at the sermon?"

 _If only you knew_ , Pete thinks grimly. "Nah," he says aloud, digging his thumbs deeper. "You know how big crowds can drain me sometimes."

She gets up and walks behind Pete's armchair, draping her arms around him, her nose pressing to the side of his head. "You're a good man, Peter. You give these people your time and you give them _hope_. You take care of them. Sometimes I just wish you'd remember to take care of yourself, too."

"But that's your job," Pete manages a smile, because this feels good, this feels familiar. "Isn't it?"

She hums and squeezes him tight, but stays silent.

He gets up after a while and starts wandering around the house. The pounding in his head is getting worse, his mind wandering. He’s trying to block out the thoughts that won’t stop pushing into his consciousness. Some of them make him uneasy, a month ago he wouldn't have recognized them as his own. He knows he had something to do with what happened to Hayley, something in his presence forced her to reveal her sins to him.

He's brought back from his thoughts by a loud crash and a wail, "Goddamn son of a bitch!"

Peeking into the kitchen, there's a soapy puddle on the floor and Hayley Williams sprawled out next to it.

"You okay?"

"Shit! Brother Peter!" Hayley exclaims and covers her mouth. "I -- I hope you didn't hear that."

"Uhhh --"

"Christ," Hayley whispers, running a hand through her hair. "God must be really disappointed in me today."

It's such an honest reaction that it startles a laugh from Pete. He steps into the kitchen and hunkers down next to her, taking her hands into his. "Vulgarity isn't a sin against God, but against Polite Society," he smiles, lowers his voice and adds, "Between you and me, I don't give a _shit_ about Polite Society."

 

\--

 

A dust storm travels through the carnival early in the evening. Frank busies himself stuffing clothes into the cracks and holes under the door and the windows in Gerard and Mikey's trailer, trying to stop the whirl of dust getting in. Gerard and Bob still aren't back, probably waiting the storm out in the car somewhere nearby, and Frank knows he could never understand the volume of worry Gerard has for Mikey right now but he knows if he had a kid brother, he wouldn't want him to end up alone in a storm.

"I hope Gerard doesn't hold these scarves in high value or something," Frank says, feeling the sand prickling his fingers as he crams a silky grey-black one into the edge of the window above Mikey's head. Mikey cocks an eyebrow and stares at Frank's fingers working the scarf.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure our wellbeing is more important to him than a couple of girly scarves. Or if it isn't then he deserves to get his scarves ruined anyway." Frank glances back down and finds Mikey almost smiling at him.

A comfy-looking chair stands next to Mikey's bed, perfect with pillows and blankets and lush cushions. The setting smells like cigarette smoke, incense and Gerard, and Frank curls up in it, pressing his cheek into the soft pillow and tugs the blanket up to his ears.

He listens to the wind whipping the windows and rattling the trailer, and watches the steady rise and fall of Mikey's chest, making sure he's okay.

At night he dreams about making Mikey walk, but when he turns around Gerard's taken Mikey's place in the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, not able to talk or move. Mikey's looking at him in agony, calling him a monster, telling him to make things right again. Then his mom is there, next to Mikey, hissing at him and stabbing at his chest with her wooden cross and smacking him over the head with it.

"Devil! Get away! Get away!"

And Frank stumbles out of the trailer, hateful words raining down on him.

It's night outside, dark and cold. Explosions illuminate the dirt-ground in small patches, but fire and smoke hide all the stars. A plethora of men in soldier’s uniforms run amok around the field and fire their rifles, bark out instructions that make no sense to Frank. Frank is still running, but now to get out of the range of the firing bullets, to not get shot. His lungs and thighs are burning, and his mouth is parched, his gums taste like blood.

Spotting a ditch nearby with people in it that don't look like they're trying to kill him, Frank lunges forward and rolls down the dirt-wall, dropping onto his back in the bottom of the pit. He scoops air into his lungs and focuses on the fast beat of his heart in his ears, concentrating on not being sick.

"Where the fuck am I?" he pants as another explosion throws dirt and sharp-edged stones at him.

Pulling himself to his feet is a bitch, his legs are trembling and hard to coordinate and his arms feel too weak to support his weight, but somehow he manages.

He peeks over the top of the pit and tries to force his eyes to adjust to the dark. On the other side of the battlefield stands a man, bull-like, his whole posture taut and threatening, hands clenched in tight fists and nostrils flaring. Frank can't tear his eyes away from him and he's staring straight back at Frank. He hesitates when the man starts walking towards him in a fast pace, breaking into run halfway there. His upper-body ripples as he moves, a huge tree, wilted and black, tattooed on his chest. He drops onto all fours and changes shape, black, thick fur rushing out of his skin, palms growing into huge paws with sharp mauling nails, and face stretching in width and length until a huge, black bear is standing in the man's place, snorting air out of its nostrils, baring white, sharp teeth.

The soldiers around him yell in fright and start shooting at it, bullet after bullet after bullet, but it won't stop advancing on Frank, eyes glowing red, breath coming in wet, strong gushes through its nose.

"Frank!" somebody shouts nearby. "Frank! Frankie!"

Frank groans and rolls out of the chair, fighting to free his legs from the mess of the blanket, but just getting them in a tighter tangle.

"Frank, calm down," Gerard's voice is frantic above him, his hands a solid weight on Frank's arm and between his shoulder blades. "Stop freaking out."

"What --?" Slowly, Frank stops struggling, getting more aware of his surroundings. He exhales shakily, blinking hard, trying to shake off the remains of his dream. "You're back," he says, testing out his voice. It sounds loud in his ears and much stronger than he feels like.

"Yeah," Gerard agrees, rolling his thumb on Frank's back. "We got back ages ago. I wanted to check up on Mikey but Bob made us wait out the storm in the truck."

"He was okay," Frank says, attempting to sit up.

"I know," Gerard smiles, making room for Frank on the floor. "I just talked to him. He said you were here all this time, that you made sure he was okay."

Frank shrugs one shoulder, kicking the blanket away. His skin feels slick from sweat and his shirt is bunched up and sticking to it. "Didn't really feel like sleeping outside tonight."

"Ha, right, of course," Gerard's smile doesn't fade, if anything, it just keeps on growing.

"I destroyed your scarves," Frank adds, biting his lip. "I think you uh -- I think you need to check the window insulations, the dust keeps getting in."

"There aren't any," Gerard nods gravely, giving the window above Mikey's head a thoughtful glance. The grey-black scarf is hanging loose from the hole Frank stuffed it in to, sunlight peeking in through the tears in the scarf.

"Well, _yeah_ , that's my whole point."

"Is --" Gerard starts, glancing at Mikey. His face turns into a huge frown and he looks ashamed of himself. "Frank, your _mom_ , fuck. I wasn't thinking."

And that's not the direction Frank wants the conversation steering to. He’d have a lot to say about his mom and most of it nothing good, but for the longest time she was all that he had. "C'mon, Gee," he says, quickly changing the subject as he hauls himself up. "I don't know about you but I really need to get something to drink, it's like Sahara in my mouth."

 

\--

 

It's already dark outside when Pete ventures out of his room. It's been another strange day, he's been zoning out and losing parts of his memory, and the dreams he's tried to suppress are just getting clearer, more real. He’s almost positive he’d dreamed about being a huge animal, a voice in his head urging him to _kill kill kill_ like it was the only thing he knew.

He had been following Joe's service that morning in the Baptist church, listening to him speaking about the importance of charity work and the power of the masses. It was nothing new, the way Joe talked to his parish hadn't changed in a decade, but something inside Pete clicked this time, and his feet carried him to the altar, and before he even knew it, he was already churning out words, taking Joe’s crowd.

"Evil exists, it's drawn from Lucifer's veins. It's part of who you are, part of who I am, who we are. The evil in you is the root of our sins. You can't be saved by prayer and bible study, but by blood and fire!"

Afterwards, he knelt by Joe's feet and demanded to be baptized so that he could be reborn. The wave of Amens that swept over him from the pews, from the mouths of the churchgoers, had thrown him into a strange, fierce ecstasy. Joe hesitated for a while, but then Pete reached into his mind, commanding him, pressuring him until he went through with the baptism, moving almost as if he had drifted into a strong, hypnotic trance. He wet his fingers in the Holy water and drew a cross on Pete’s forehead, reciting the Trinitarian formula at Pete’s command, his hand shaking like he was fighting against it. Pete felt the water sliding down his face becoming thicker, warmer, the texture changing. As Joe gasped in fright, he brushed his fingers against the wetness on his cheek and rubbed his fingers together, marveling at the sharp tang and texture of his own blood.

After church he retreated back into his room, faking a headache when Ashlee came to check up on him. Only when the house became quiet again did he muster up the courage to leave the safety of his room, sneaking outdoors when no one was looking.

And here he is now, standing in the middle of the road and enjoying the light breeze on his hot skin. The streets are mostly vacant now, and the air feels cool and refreshing; even though he wouldn't tell Ashlee, he definitely prefers the nights.

He tries to avoid talking to people, he gets to do that enough at the church meetings, right now he just wants to walk and clear his mind, to figure out solutions to the questions that have been bothering him for days. The parish still needs bigger premises, but everywhere is expensive and full. And what would God think of him if he failed the simplest missions?

He wanders around, not really paying attention to where he's going, until he realizes he's walked to the edge of the town and he's standing on the doorstep of the last building before the desert begins.

Lanterns in all shapes and sizes burn bright near the house, red papery ones that make him think of China, even though he's only ever read about the land in books and travel accounts, and more familiar ones made of glass and metal. There are shadows looming on the porch, women in tunics and heavy make-up and weatherworn men all around them, leering and whispering to them in suggestive tones.

Up in the windows there are shapes moving behind the curtains, melting together like warm butter. A neon signboard promotes Chin’s whorehouse on the rooftop.

The clouds shift overhead and snow starts falling over the dark ground, melting at the first contact. It never snows here but the women and men on the porch don't seem to notice or care.

A step forwards and the snowfall grows into a blizzard, another step and the fresh, white flakes turn red. Pete kneels down and lifts his head up at the sky as fat drops of blood splatter on his face and on the walls of the building, gliding down the windows. A cross manifests on the signboard, flickering red, the light crackling, before everything goes back to normal again. The blood disappears together with the cross.

If this isn't a message from a higher power, Pete doesn't know what is.

 

\--

 

"Hey, debauchee," Jimmy quips from the driver's seat of Schechter's truck. Lindsey's leaning up against the frame of the truck, arm crooked and resting on the open window, observing Frank all sharp and fox-like.

"You talking to me?" Frank asks, annoyed at Jimmy by default. Can't a guy mind his own business without some loud-mouthed asshole getting in his hair?

"Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. You been watching my girls for free, and I ain't down with that shit."

"Oh, leave him alone," Lindsey defends, elbowing Jimmy in the arm so hard that he recoils. “He hasn’t done anything.”

"Whatever, Jimmy," Frank says, "You're just so full of shit it's starting to come out of your mouth." Even if he had wanted to check out the cooch show again, it's not like he's had that many opportunities. The dust storm’s kept the carnival closed for business.

But now is a busy morning for everyone in the carnival. They've stopped moving again just twenty miles from the last town and the rousties are working to get everything set up and ready for the night's show. It's an exciting life, Frank thinks, but he'd give just about anything for a moment's rest. It doesn't help that his dreams are gradually getting worse, so much so that he'd prefer not to sleep at all anymore.

"Frankie," Lindsey hollers, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "I like you. You’re a good guy. You can come see our show any time you want." She gives him a conspiratorial wink, and Frank knows she loves messing with Jimmy even more than he does.

She sobers up a bit and adds, "Don't take any heed of Jimmy, either. He's not the boss of me."

"Well, technically --" Jimmy starts and then ducks away from the window, trying to get away from Lindsey before she gets to him. Frankly, that guy’s stuck there, and Lindsey soon has a tight grip around a chunk of his messy, dirty hair. She gives it a hard yank, and Jimmy howls in pain.

"Thanks, Linds," Frank grins, chuckling at the sounds of Jimmy's loud protests. "I’ll remember that."

Walking amongst the half-erect tents, he takes a left and gets to the clearing, spots Brian under the CARNIVÀLE sign, his features tense, eyebrows drawn together, just staring into distance. No, on second thought, Brian is waiting for someone, looking on at a black car moving down the dirt road, a dust cloud following in its wake.

Frank steps into the shadows of the main tent as the car comes to a halt, something in his gut telling him to hide. A young man in leather boots and a cowboy hat steps out of the car, and the bad feeling in Frank’s gut worsens. He steps further in the shadow and squints at the newcomer, folding his hand above his eyes to shield them from the glaring sun.

"Hey, Frankie," Gerard's bright voice startles him.

"Christ, Gee," Frank hisses, clutching at his chest. He pulls Gerard behind him as he turns back to the scene. "Give a guy a fucking heart-attack, why don't you?"

Brian is shaking hands with the man in a friendly manner like they're old pals. Shifting closer, the gleam of the man's star-shaped badge hits his eyes. _The sheriff_. Frank swallows, trying hard not to panic.

"What's going on?"

"What's Brian doing talking to that man?" Frank asks, his fingers rubbing at his wrist in what he knows is a nervous manner but he can’t stop.

"Oh, sheriff Stump," Gerard sounds amused and Frank glances behind him, giving him a scowl. "He's pretty cool. He used to run a carnival of his own, but the times were pretty rough on him. Now he's the sheriff in the town we passed this morning. What's the big deal?"

"Sheriff Stump," Frank echoes, testing out the name.

"What's up? Why are you so freaked out?"

"I'm not—"

Gerard lets out an exasperated noise and leans against a support pillar, crossing his arms over his chest. "Whatever," he says, his lip jutting out. "I just thought we were friends."

"We are friends," Frank sighs. "It's just – it's fucking stupid, okay?"

"Friends tell each other stupid things." Gerard smiles in an encouraging manner. "And they don't get laughed at, or judged at, or whatever."

Frank looks at Gerard, feeling very skeptical. "Yeah, right."

"Come _onnnn_ ," Gerard drawls. "What're you like, a conman or something?"

There's an awkward pause, during which Frank can hear Brian in the background in his most convincing salesman-voice saying, "Patrick, I'm tellin' you this operation is hundred percent legit," and Stump’s reply, "I never heard an honest man use the word 'legit'."

Frank shifts guiltily and opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

"Holy shit you are!" Gerard hisses, surprised and a bit in awe of him. "I knew you were hiding something but I totally didn't think it'd be something like that." Frank eyes the sheriff, his hands shaking, and Gerard lowers his voice even more. "What -- What did you _do_?"

"Look, it's not – I didn't kill anybody if that's what you're-"

“What? No! That’s not what I –“ Gerard starts to protest, so Frank lets out a shaky laugh, stepping closer so that Gerard can see the numbers on his wrist better.

"Basically, I pissed off the wrong guy. A few years ago I got into this stupid bar fight with the governor's nephew, broke his arm and got put in jail for years for that. The tattoo's just my fucking convict number."

"But you're not in jail now." Gerard frowns. Frank can practically see the wheels turning in his head, and he's just waiting for him to catch on and figure him out. Suddenly Frank's yanked inside the tent by his wrist, stumbling until Gerard lets him find his footing. "You escaped?" he hisses.

"Of course I fucking escaped," Frank snaps, pulling back. "I wasn't gonna fucking build railways in chains for the rest of my life." Besides, his mom had just fallen ill back then, he wasn't gonna let her suffer and die alone in that tiny house on that good-for-nothing farm.

Gerard nods, studying him with close attention. "Okay," he finally concludes and gives Frank a small, reassuring smile.

"Okay?" asks Frank, feeling very doubtful.

"Well, yeah," Gerard's smile stretches his mouth and packs his cheeks into round lumps. " _Okay_. Relax man, you still look like you're gonna split any second."

"But... You're not mad?"

"Nah. Why would I be? Frank, look around you," Gerard says, motioning with his hands, "you're in a carnival, you're not the only one around here with skeletons in their closet."

"You got secrets?"

Gerard just smiles mysteriously at him and gives him a wink. "And don't you worry about Brian, either. He's not gonna turn you in. You might be new here but you're still one of us, and if there's something carnies take pride in it's looking out for their own. To be honest, if that's the big secret you were trying not to let slip, I'm way disappointed, I was counting on it being something... well, much bigger."

 _If you only knew_ , Frank thinks darkly, scowling at Gerard's knees.

"Stop! Everyone just stop it! That goes for you too, Bryar!" Brian’s voice bellows from outside the tent.

"What's this all about now," Gerard wonders out loud, glancing at Frank and then walking out of the tent.

Shrugging, Frank follows.

"Brian?"

"Gerard!" Brian stops fast in his tracks. The blue vein in his forehead lets an angry throb like it could pop any moment.

"What's going on?" Gerard asks. Bob drops his tools to the ground and edges closer, his face one big frown although not yet quite matching Brian's.

"It's Stump," Brian spits out the name like it stings his tongue. "He's all big town sheriff-y now, like he's fucking forgotten his roots."

Next to Frank, Gerard visibly deflates. "He's making us go dark tonight?"

"And tomorrow, and the next day. I'm gonna let the crew have a day off and we start moving first thing in the morning. We don't have an audience here. Or even if we did, fuckin' Stump just wouldn't let us entertain it."

"Damn," Gerard says. "I was looking forward to reading cards again. And I know Mikey gets really bored when nothing's happening."

"Sorry man," Brian says, patting Gerard on the back. "Tough luck, tougher times."

Frank stares at Brian's retreating back: his whole body is tense, a small dust cloud trails behind his shoes.

Bob is trying his luck with Gerard, his smile sheepish when he suggests that Gerard could read his cards again to keep Mikey and himself entertained.

Gerard matches his smile, but it's crooked and a little disbelieving. "As much as we value your support, man, I don't think the cards have anything new to say to you. It's only been what, a couple of days from your last time?"

"Why don't you give Iero a reading then, let's see what the cards have to say about him," Bob's voice has a nasty edge to it that makes Frank feel much more uncomfortable than his suggestion does.

"Why don't you just mind your own business," he glowers.

"Oh," Gerard says, frowning at Bob. "It's fine, Frank, seriously. No one's forcing you."

Frank huffs out a breath and balls his fingers into tight fists. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Since nothing's happening today, we could take one of the trucks and drive into town. Check out the people that're supposedly too good for us low-lifes, whaddya say?" Gerard smiles.

"I was gonna suggest you and me play some catch," says Bob, motioning at the mitt and the ball on the box by the half-risen Ferris wheel. Schecter's circling the ride and motioning wildly at the people trying to erect it. "We always keep putting it off and didn't I promise to show you how to put that extra special spin in the ball like, months ago?"

Gerard looks a little put out, Frank thinks, and in all honesty, he can't imagine Gerard doing any kind of sports, least of all baseball. It's such an improbable situation that Frank has to scrape his teeth against the insides of his cheeks to keep the snicker from bursting out.

"Uhhhhh," Gerard says, sinking his fingers into the mess of his hair, scratching his head.

"Why don't you show him after we get back from town," Frank jumps in, giving Bob a challenging look, smirking when Gerard hastens to agree with him.

"That's an awesome idea! And when we get back you can teach us both how to throw that ball to make it spin!" Gerard concludes and starts steering Frank away, not giving Bob any time to argue with them.

The town isn't much bigger than the last one, the buildings are dull monochrome and the people too, and there are no kids playing in the streets.

Schechter and Bryar had followed them here, Bob so that he could keep an eye on Frank no doubt, and Brian because Gerard had insisted on it when they found him sulking on the steps of the Management Trailer. Frank's never been inside the trailer, but he's heard carnies talking about the man with the big hair who lives there.

"This place is fucking sad," Brian says, looking around with a displeased expression, scowling at an old dusty man walking past them.

"Hey, it could be worse," Gerard says unconvincingly. "There's a bar over there and a kiosk... And didn't we see a motel somewhere when we were driving here," he tries to prompt Frank.

"It looked like shit," Frank says, but his heart isn't really in it. He's staring at a small crowd that has started gathering across the street. The crowd is staring back at him, whispering something behind their hands.

"That's him! That's him, mama!" a little girl with crooked knees exclaims, pointing at Frank, tugging at her mother's hem. "That's the man!"

 _Shit_ , Frank thinks, recognizing her now.

"Frank?" Brian asks. "What's this all about?" Frank glances at Gerard and Bob, they both just look confused. He tries to imagine how their faces would look if they found out.

The girl's mom comes running to him and crushes him in a tight hug, touching his face and looking at him like he's some kind of a saint.

"Fucking weirdos," Bob says disbelievingly, shaking his head. More people are circling Frank now, women and kids, touching his face and hair, their warm, sweaty hands grabbing Frank and pulling him in, incoherent murmur breaking out all around him. A wrinkly old woman has fat tears in the corners of her eyes. The girl from the sunflower field hopples around them all, braided hair bouncing on her shoulders.

"Get away from me," Frank says, trying to push away from the crowd, there are too many people and the wall of them makes him feel claustrophobic, like he might suffocate. "Let me fucking go."

"Alright, everyone back the hell off," Brian barks like a guard dog and starts separating the crowd with Gerard. Even Bob joins in steering people away, giving Frank room to breathe. When he gets freed from the clutches of the crowd, he runs back to the trucks without looking back, stumbling on some small rocks, his legs shaking. He opens the door and climbs in, banging the door closed, breathing hard.

It doesn't take long until Brian's sitting in the driver's seat, a smoke between his lips and a distant look in his eyes. Frank must have been a fool to think that he'd get to ride back with Gerard after this.

"So, these people seem to think," Brian starts, huffs a laugh and jabs the key into the ignition, "that you're some kind of a healer."

Frank swallows hard and digs his hands into his armpits, feeling his muscles tense up under his skin. "Yeah?" he asks, trying to keep his voice even.

"Yeah, can you believe that? 'Cause my curiosity sure got tickled. Is there something you wanna tell me? Do you know that girl?"

"There's nothing to tell," Frank says, looking out the window with tense determination.

Brian sighs and offers the cigarette to him. "Go ahead," he says when Frank hesitates. "There's no catch this time, no obligations, just two guys having a smoke."

Frank takes the cigarette from Brian and brings it to his lips, lets the habit of it soothe his nerves.

"So what," he says, after a while. "You don't wanna play twenty questions anymore?"

"We never played twenty questions," Brian reminds him, taking a left turn and starting to steer the truck back toward their camp. "But no, I'll always keep asking, you just already earned yourself this little price today. Good job, kid. Well done."

"I don't get it, clearly what that girl said was just the product of her overly vivid imagination."

"I don't know what that was, and right now, I don't really even wanna know, 'cause I just figured out a way to make you useful _and_ how to keep the carnival open tonight," Brian adds, turning to Frank with an unsettling smirk.

"You don't think I'm being useful?" Frank asks, somewhat offended. He's been working himself to the bone, and he's got muscle pain to prove it. Looking at his hands, they're cracked and tender, like little earthquakes in the desert.

"All I've seen you do lately is following Gerard around like a lost little puppy and avoiding running into Bryar and me as much as possible."

"I've been that obvious?" Frank asks, sinking into himself.

Brian chuckles, pressing his jaw to the collar of his brown jacket, and keeps his eyes on the road.

 

\--

 

It's a lovely afternoon, Pete decides, looking out the kitchen window. The sun is making shapes on the white walls and coloring the windowpanes. It's an afternoon meant for great deeds, an afternoon where change isn’t just possible, but probable.

Hayley's humming to herself while rolling the cookie dough. She's been better today, her timidity just a close memory now. She's got a rosy blush on her cheeks and her hair has lost the layers of dirt and grease. Maybe Ashlee was right, maybe having Hayley around isn't such a bad idea at all. He's looking forward to eating oven-fresh cookies with his coffee today.

"Peter? You wanted to talk to me about something?" Ashlee's voice carries from the doorway.

"I have big news!" Pete grins, turning around and scooping her up in a warm hug.

"Pete!" she giggles, and Pete almost kisses her before he catches himself.

Pete glances at Hayley, she's in the middle of sprinkling spices into the dough mix, softly smiling to herself.

"Let's go to the living room," Pete suggests and takes a hold of Ash's shoulders, guiding her out of the room.

"Alright," Ash says in the hall, and "what's going on?" as he sits her down in her rocking chair.

"Do you remember last night?"

"It was chilly and you went out before I had a chance to remind you to wear your coat --"

"I walked around town," Pete interrupts, "Anguished over the thought of letting everyone down, letting _God_ down, ashamed of not being able to bring His word to every ear that's still willing to listen --"

"Pete, don't be silly."

"No, but then I had a vision -- a sign."

"A sign? Pete, I don't understand."

"From God!" Pete cries out. Just thinking about last night is making him buzz with excitement again.

"I don't know what to say," Ash says with no real enthusiasm. "A sign from God?"

"I had a vision, Ash! I prayed for guidance and God heard me!"

"God spoke to you?"

"I know what you're thinking, but I promise you Ash, it was all real. I know where the new ministry will be built, and there'll even be room left for all the street-kids out there. All I need is to meet up with some people tomorrow and things will start going our way again."

Ashlee's beaming now, albeit a little hesitantly, but there's nothing wrong with a healthy dose of caution when being faced with new things.

"The place is perfect, Ash, I just know it."

"Show me," she says, taking Pete's hands and squeezing them tight.

Half an hour later they’re standing outside of Chin's. Ashlee's grip on his hand has been tightening gradually, and now it feels like she's trying to break his fingers.

"Pete, what are we doing here?"

"What do you mean what are we -- Ash, this is it, this is the place."

"But... Pete, don't you know what this building is?" she says under her breath.

"It's a brothel," Pete answers to her.

"Well then you should know that this is no place for a church! What would daddy think?"

"I thought you wanted a safe place for the orphans, to get them off the streets."

"There's got to be something better than this. Are you sure you're not rushing into something you haven't really thought through?"

Pete grits his teeth, not feeling like he has to explain himself to Ashlee of all people. "Do you know that there is a boy here whose mother abandoned him in the restroom of a Five and Dime?"

"No, but --"

"Or that Polly Ann's father sold her to some men for one dollar?"

Ashlee looks scandalized.

"No. No, of course not. Who wants to dwell on things like that? Why think of the boys in the mines crouched over the chutes? They sit for hours, sifting the refuse from the coal, their backs bent. Old men by nine, black lung by twelve. Coal is heavy and hard, hands are soft and fragile. Go for a walk, you see them. Poisoned girls selling themselves to men and women. A nickel buys a virgin; some are kept in cages. Babies, bought by men who raise them as livestock. Animals to abuse, soft flesh to violate, to tear and bite! 'If anyone causes even one of the little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and be damned in the depths of the sea!' They must open their eyes! They must open their mouths and drown!"

"Pete!" Ashlee gasps, frightened. "What's gotten into you? I've never heard you speaking like this."

"And you've known me for all your life. But Ash, I feel like I'm finally seeing things how they are, and how they should be. Like I'm coming out of my shell, a slimy, wrinkly turtle who sees daylight for the first time in his life!"

Ashlee still looks doubtful, but she can't help but smirk at Pete's description.

"Don't you see," Pete coaxes, though he already knows he's gonna win this one. "We can turn this place into something good, I can mend its calluses, soothe the boils, cleanse it from sin, so that no resident of this town has to turn away from it in shame." Pete takes Ashlee's hands into his and gives them a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "I can do this, Ash. _We_ can do this."

She's smiling now, looking at him like they're seven and twelve again and he's just punched Chris in the face for taking her stick horse from her behind the church after Joe’s sermon.

 

\--

 

Back in the carnival Brian grabs Frank by the shirtsleeve and drags him into the direction of the main tent, motioning at people to follow them as they pass them by. The rest of the ride had become very awkward to Frank as he listened to Brian talking about his plan and what he would need from him.

"Start arrangements, everyone, we've lost half a day already."

"Arrangements for what?" Gabe calls, and Brian's met with a rain of confused murmur.

"The show will be on tonight. As you all know, we can't keep the carnival open, but no one’s banned us from having a -- wait for it," Brian pauses, grabbing a hold of Frank's arm and hoisting it up in the air, "Revival meeting!"

"A what now?" Lindsey asks, lips quirking up. She looks like she did when Frank first met her, oddly bland in a knee-skirt and sand-colored blouse, no dark make-up, her black hair up in a haphazard bun.

"You heard me," Brian says, letting Frank struggle out of his hold. "The town's full of gullible, religious lunatics, and they all seem to think that our Frank is some kind of a magical healer."

"And the plot thickens," comments Bob from the tentway. Gerard's standing next to him, staring at Frank with an unreadable face.

"Indeed, good sir, so get to work, this here tent needs to have gone through a serious makeover by the end of the day. Bob, I trust you know what to do."

"On it," Bob says, leaving Gerard standing alone in the tentway.

"Tegan, Sara, Lindsey? You mind taking care of the appearances? We need to make Frank look presentable. Like a true believer."

The girls nod and start sizing Frank up while Brian turns to him and asks, "How does Reverend Francis Saint Anthony sound like, kid?"

"My name's Frank," Frank scowls, but knows there's no real chance of him ever winning this battle.

Half an hour later and he's managed to escape the girls' clutches, still wearing the tailcoat Lindsey had crammed him into. It smells like exotic spices and mothballs, making his eyes itch and his nose run. His hair is slicked back over his scalp with black, sticky wax that came in a round metallic jar from Ryland's chest pocket, and he just knows he looks like a real jackass.

After a while Brian comes to check up on them and pauses upon noticing Frank, his mouth twisting with amusement even as he's struggling not to laugh. "Well, hell, kid. You look like Valentino."

Frank makes a face, looking down at himself, his moth-eaten jacket and dusty trousers, his patent leather shoes too big on his feet. "I look fucking ridiculous. I need to get away from here."

"Hey now, come back, I didn't mean it as necessarily a bad thing," Brian yells after him, then bursts into a cackling laugh that follows on Frank’s tail all the way outside where the wind picks it up and carries it away.

He sneaks into the Ways' trailer and closes the door behind him after checking that no one's noticed him coming this way.

"Can I hide in your trailer," he asks. After what happened in the town, he's not all that sure that he's welcome here anymore.

Mikey's head is propped up on Gerard's thigh and a tea towel has been stuffed into his shirt collar. Gerard brings a spoon of thick, sticky-looking porridge to Mikey's lips and waits for him to lick it clean. The scene is too intimate and Frank feels like he's intruding. He forces his eyes to the carpet and waits for Gerard to tell him to fuck off like the fiercely protective big brother that Frank's imagined him to be.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says, though, and then looks up at Frank and lets out a startled laugh. "You let the girls dolly you up?"

"Not like I had much choice. Thanks man," he says, sinking into a soft armchair.

"I sometimes let them paint my face," Gerard says while giving Mikey another spoonful. Frank's not even all that surprised to hear that. "You know, put on some blush and eye shadow, some mascara."

"I can picture that."

"Mikey says you look ridiculous, by the way."

"Thanks," Frank says, sarcastically, but can't help but laugh. The tension in his muscles is easing a little now that he's sitting down and not really thinking about what's going to happen later with the show. He can't suppress the yawn that escapes, and it stretches his jaw so wide the hinges of his bones make a loud click. "I feel ridiculous."

Gerard tilts his head to the side, contemplating. "I think you look just tired."

Frank hums, reclining in the chair and pressing his cheek on the pillow behind his head. "I'm fine."

"You're not sleeping well. You have nightmares."

"Your cards tell you that?"

"No," Gerard says, dropping the half-eaten bowl of porridge on the bedside table. "The circles around your eyes tell me that. Besides, sometimes I see you pacing around at night. That's also a pretty good giveaway, don’t you think?"

"That just means you’re not sleeping either," Frank says, sounding more accusing than he feels.

"I'm a vampire, didn't you know!" Gerard grins, showing his small teeth, hunching his shoulders up to his ears and clawing at the air all cat-like. Frank doesn't know much about vampires, but Gerard looks very unthreatening to him.

"I think I get it. Creature of the night, right?"

"Exactly!" Gerard enthuses. There's a pause and then Gerard glares at Mikey, and it doesn't take a genius to know that Mikey's teasing him again.

"What did he say?" Frank asks, feeling giddy. Gerard's face is pink now and Frank finds it impossible to tear his eyes away from him.

"Nothing," Gerard replies too quickly. There's another pause and then he adds, drawing out his words, "he's just being a motherfucking pain in the ass. Little brothers, y'know?"

"No, I really don't."

"Right, no. You wouldn't." Gerard nods and his hair slips in front of his eyes and hangs there like a curtain.

They sit in silence, listening to the wind moaning outside. The noise rattles Frank's bones, and he realizes he's growing anxious again. His nerves make his jaw itch, and he digs his fingers into his belly when it makes a painful whoop.

"The kid whose legs they say you healed," Gerard starts, watching him with clear, shining eyes.

Frank swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat. "What about her?"

"Well, I mean,” Gerard hesitates. “Did you really do it?"

"What do you think?"

"I think there's so much you're not telling us. And I wish you could trust me. Us," he says, glancing at Mikey.

"Look. It doesn't -- Even if I could help the girl, I can't make Mikey walk. Ever." Frank confronts the elephant in the room, because that's where this was going, right? "I'm fucking sorry, Gee, but I _can't_."

Gerard looks down at his hands and nods, biting at his lip. Mikey's still just staring up at the ceiling, his chest undulating as he breathes. Frank wishes he could just leave, but he thinks he owes them an explanation.

"There's nothing wrong with him. I mean, it's a birth defect, right? He didn't fall off the roof and crack his spine or something?"

Gerard looks confused. "But I thought the girl --"

"She was still growing. I could feel the energy in her bones, even if it was really weak. She wasn't done growing yet, her bones hadn't stopped shaping themselves." It's something Frank's been thinking about for a while now, and when he's heard himself speak it out loud he realizes that it must be true.

"Oh," Gerard says quietly, then starts to add something but before he can say anything else, Mikey interrupts him. Frank watches as Gerard runs a thumb through the thin hair on the crown of Mikey's head, looking like he's trying to swallow down his hurt and disappointment. After a while though he gives Frank a small smile and says with a gentle voice, "He said you're really special and that you need to stop feeling bad about this. I shouldn't have -- Frank, it wasn't Mikey's idea to ask you," Gerard says like it's important that Frank knows this. "And you don't have to worry about keeping this a secret either, because we're not gonna say anything, ever. Like I keep telling ya, you really can trust us."

Frank's at a loss. Gerard's the first person he's kinda told about his skill since his mom figured it out when he was just a little kid. She used to threaten to lock him up in the tiny tool shed in the backyard if he told a living soul. He's weeks away from the shed and his dead mother and the thought still gives him the creeps. At the same time he's experiencing a moment of fierce invincibility. Somebody found out this huge, unbelievable thing about him that he's kept buried inside for so long, for his whole life. And against all odds, against everything he was ever forced to believe, nothing bad happened. His world didn’t come to an end.

"Listen, I'm sorry, okay?"

"For what," Frank asks, utterly confused.

"Just... making you feel uncomfortable. Or like, pressuring you."

"Don't even -- don't worry about it, okay? You didn’t pressure me."

Gerard smiles big and toothy, reaching out to bump his knuckles against Frank's hand. "Deal."

"I think you could read my cards now," Frank adds, because _why the fuck not_ , then can't help but laugh at Gerard's stupidly excited face.

"Right on!" Gerard clambers up from the bed, takes a seat on the opposite side of Frank at the round table and starts rummaging in a medium-sized box that’s covering almost a third of the table.

 

\--

 

Pete's got the mayor outside of Chin’s, his body so tense that Pete can practically see him vibrating, his fat face so red he resembles a giant beet.

"You want me to do _what_?"

"We already went through this, Lyle," Pete sighs. "I want you to give this house to me and my migrant parish."

"But - but - but - why?” Lyle stutters. “What on earth would you -- a man of God, no less -- want with a place like this?" Oddly enough, mayor Lyle looks almost embarrassed.

"It's just a house. What goes on there right now doesn't define it."

"Brother Peter," Lyle fawns, droplets of sweat running down his red face and disappearing into his walrus mustache, "You're a smart man, you must realize the trouble I'd get in if I took this - this whorehouse away from the men of this town."

"Lyle, you have to think about the big picture. What do you think will be worse in the long run: losing a few voters or losing your place in the You-Know-What."

"Now you listen to me," Lyle snaps, his face is so red now it's turning purple. "You don't get far with me by throwing out empty threats. I am a good citizen, I say my prayers and go to your or Father Simpson's church meetings every Sunday and even stay for coffee."

"You're a casual believer. And that's not even your worst vice. Don't think I don't know what you like to do after a day's work. When the lights go out."

"Just what are you accusing me of?" Lyle hisses, but the tremble in his voice betrays him. So far Pete's just been winging it, a voice inside him whispering to him and guiding his words. Now it's telling him to lead mayor Lyle Templeton into the lion's den.

 

\--

 

So Frank's sitting there, still in that too-comfortable armchair, the cards on the table, while Gerard sets up the lighting. Apparently you can't look into people's lives in natural daylight, the mood has to be set. The candles are lit up with Gee's cigarette matches and the dark but tattered curtains drawn over the window.

Gerard looks like he's enjoying this, really, really enjoying this.

"Your cards look fucking awesome, by the way," Frank comments, studying the deck. He carefully lifts the topmost card up with his pointer finger like he's opening a chest full of secrets, and peeks at the second one underneath it.

"You can look through them, Frank, go ahead," Gerard says, and Frank realizes with a start that Gerard's stopped messing with the lights and is now just standing behind him.

Frank shrugs and picks up the deck, leafing through it. The cards are made from smoothly rasped, thinly cut wood. They fit well in his hands, so they must be a perfect fit in Gerard's. The thing that strikes him the most is just how attractive the designs are. He stops to study a picture of Death, a white skeleton against a midnight-blue background with big, white stars.

"Do you like the paintings?"

Gerard’s taken his seat again, his hands clasped on the table, waiting for Frank to finish studying the deck.

"Did you paint them?"

Gerard tilts his head and narrows his eyes. "How'd you guess?"

"Brian said you painted most of the posters. I guess I recognized your style."

"Oh, well, yea, I had this one deck of cards for the longest time, but when the pictures were faded so much you couldn't tell what was in them, I decided to just paint my own cards. Bob actually helped me carve them out of these old planks they weren't using anymore."

"Christ, Gee," Frank breathes out, feeling very sorry for himself. "That guy's fucking nuts about you."

"What?" Gerard gives a nervous laugh.

"Come on, you can't tell me you haven't noticed," Frank gives him a weak smile. "I'm like, the most oblivious person in the world and even I can tell he’s so gone on you."

"Bob's just... really friendly," Gerard says and Frank has to laugh at that because, _really_ , that's not the word he'd use to describe Bob Bryar, not by a long shot. Then Gerard starts sputtering and turns to Mikey, looking affronted as he orders him to shut up.

"Ha! So Mikey agrees with me!"

"Look, just. Me and Bob and Mikey go a long way. We’ve been through a lot together. So, whatever you think you're seeing, it's just really strong friendship. Okay?"

Maybe Frank wouldn't have such a hard time believing him if he wasn't so pink in the face. "Fine, but maybe Bob needs to hear that more than me." He reaches over the table for Gerard’s hands and sits the deck on the flat of Gerard’s palm. It's fits there perfectly.

"Ready to do this thing?"

Gerard studies Frank for a while, the pink starting to fade from his cheeks, before he nods and smiles, turns the cards over in his hands and runs his fingers down along the smooth surface. "Ready if you are."

"What do you need me to do?" Frank asks, wringing his hands in his lap. He feels stupidly nervous again, even though he knows that he’s safe, knows he can trust these guys.

"Just relax, Frank, you're making me nervous with all that fidgeting. Here, shuffle these," Gerard adds, handing the cards back to Frank.

"I can do that," Frank says, feeling clumsy with the cards now. He manages to drop half of them into his lap before he shoves them back to Gee's hands.

"Past, present or the future?"

"What's the difference?"

"Very well. The past."

Gerard deals out three cards on the table upside down and places the rest of the deck on the lid of the box. He takes the first card and flips it over, revealing the first image.

"The Moon," he says, studying Frank. "It indicates confusion and exposure."

"Oh, good lord. Boy, you can't take that up," Frank can hear his mother's voice hissing to him in his head. It's been a few weeks after his birthday and he's five years old. He's curled up against the wall under the window, holding the small puppy he got for a present in his arms, stroking its soft fur with his small, dirty hands.

"It's been three days in the ground!" his mother is saying, looking at Frank with disgust. "You just like to get yourself sick!"

She tries to grab the dog from Frank, yelling at him, "Give it to me! _Give it to me!_ "

He does his best not to let go, holding onto the dog’s dead weight with all his might, but he’s just a little boy. His mama yanks the dog away from him and carries it out of the room, but then, suddenly, the puppy starts to yap and struggle in his mama’s arms and she lets out a scream, dropping it to the floor. She whimpers in fear, backing away from Frank. He's never seen her so frightened before.

The puppy runs back to Frank's lap and he presses his face into its soft fur, stroking its side.

"What have you done?" she asks, fingering the cross on her neck.

"Are you alright?" Gerard's voice pierces through the memory and brings Frank back to the present. He looks around the trailer without really seeing anything, fighting the vision to clear his head, and it takes a long while before he remembers where he is and what’s going on.

"I -- yeah," he rasps out, and Gerard frowns, glancing at Mikey.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No," Frank insists, voice thick with emotion. "Go on."

Gerard gives him a small nod and flips the middle card over. "Death," he breathes out.

The puppy is standing on the floor now, next to a tub of water. "You got no right. No right, boy," his mama says, lifting the dog into an empty potato sack and tying it shut with a string. "Lord takes what's his, man don't take it back."

"Not a harbinger of bad fortune, but transformation," Gerard's voice sounds distant, and Frank can hardly hear him.

"No! NO!" Frank is yelling, trying to tear the sack from her hands while the puppy’s panicked yaps fill the room, scaring him, breaking his heart.

She shoves Frank away, ordering him to the far corner of the room.

Frank's sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth and crying while she's drowning the dog in the tub. "You're a marked boy," she says thickly, her voice grating like she has rocks in her throat. "You're marked by the Beast."

"What do you see?" Gerard asks. Frank can't stop trembling and staring at the card. The skeleton stares back at him with black, hollow eyes. "Frank?"

"I, uh, I don't know. Nothing," Frank lies. He wasn't prepared for this. He never wanted to share this memory with anyone. Gerard glances at Mikey again and then at Frank, looking like he wants to end the session right there.

"Just go on," Frank says, wanting it all to be over already. "Please. Keep going."

The last card gets flipped over, and the figure is facing his direction this time as opposed to the other two cards. "The Magician reversed."

"You filth," his mama croaks, scooting as far away from Frank as she can on her bed. The memory is not even a year old and she's been suffering from her illness for months already. Frank just wants to fix her, to make the harrowing coughs to stop.

"You have a great talent, an ability," Gerard's voice reaches him easily this time through the hazy memory.

"But it's reversed?"

"Upside down. Means it's been wasted, unfulfilled. A gift you've hidden from others."

"Don't touch me," she whispers, her thin face sweaty and pale. She reaches for the nightstand with a frail hand, grabbing the wooden cross from the top of her Bible.

Frank's looming in the doorway, watching her holding the cross in front of her like it's a shield between him and her, like he can't touch her as long as she has the cross.

"Get out," she coughs. "You filth. Keep your hands off me, you filth."

"Frank? Frankie?"

Frank watches as Gerard slowly reaches over the table like he’s afraid of startling him, and takes his hand, squeezing tight. A face flickers before his eyes then, a face like thunder, eyes black as coals, and hisses, "What are you hiding?"

Frank pulls away from the table, wrenching his hand from Gerard's so fast he stumbles back. The chair topples over and makes a loud noise as it crashes behind him. He looks at Gerard, then at Mikey, then rushes out the door, the need of fresh air so strong black spots veil his vision.

"Wait -- What? Frank? _Frank?_ "

Frank stops by the steps and sinks down on the middle one, gulping air into his lungs, clenching his fists and trying to even out his breathing, remembering the minister from his dream, his angry face still sharp in his vision when he closes his eyes.

 

\--

 

"Whoa," Pete says, tripping over his feet and stumbling backwards on the steps, his grip on Lyle's jacket the only thing keeping him from falling down.

"What the hell, now, Peter?" Lyle asks. He's been complaining the whole time they've been inside, and Pete's just about had it with him.

He shakes his head and blinks fast, the young man from his dreams still flickering before his eyes. _I've finally lost my mind_ , he thinks, panicking.

He gives a shaky laugh and stares at Lyle for a while, trying to remember what was so important in the house he needed Lyle to see.

Lies. Corruption. Perversion.

Right.

"Come on, just one more room to go, then I'll let you make your decision about the place."

"This is ridiculous," Lyle grunts, his neck now an unhealthy shade of purple.

They get upstairs, Lyle panting and sweating, Pete having a tight grip on the back of his jacket, not letting him get away.

"You've been a bad man. Bad, bad man, Lyle Templeton," Pete singsongs in front of the last door in the hallway. He’s getting kind of excited now, already knowing what will happen when they walk into the room. "Shall we see just how bad?"

"Preposterous," Lyle mutters darkly as Pete pushes the door open.

The room is small, small window, small desk, the bed taking up most of the space. It's empty, but when Pete starts talking, they both witness a vision of the mayor sitting on the spring mattress, blue sheets against white underwear. They watch as a young boy no more than seven years old walks up to the bed and sits down beside him, eyes on the floor as Lyle lifts an arm around his naked, skinny shoulders and presses him up against his round, shirtless belly.

"It's up to you what happens now," Pete says quietly, his hand on the back of Lyle's pudgy neck. "No one needs to know about this, and I promise you they won't, but there's something you need to do for me in return."

 

\--

 

"I upset you," Gerard says, looking wretched. He's standing in the doorway behind Frank, worrying his lip between his teeth. Frank pats the small space next to him and Gerard lets out a relieved sigh as he plonks down on it, their arms brushing.

"Nah, I upset myself. I hadn't thought about that memory in such a long time." Frank's managed to calm down his shaking, it's only in his hands now. He hadn't noticed the wetness on his cheeks until Gerard brushed his face with the back of his hand.

Gerard's smile is rueful when he pulls his hand back. "I'm still sorry."

"Did - did you see it, too?"

"It doesn't really work like that. Sometimes Mikey gets glimpses, and then he shares them with me so I can give people more accurate readings, but Frank, even if he did see something just now, he didn't tell me anything. He kept your secret."

Frank feels somewhat honored that Mikey would keep his memories private, even if Gerard already knows about his ability and all. "He can tell you, it doesn't matter. There's nothing there you couldn't guess anyway. Besides, I think I might want you to know more about me, but I never want to talk about those memories with anyone, not even you."

"Whatever you're comfortable with. But thanks, man. I'm glad you're opening up to us."

Frank tries a small grin, and finds that it doesn't feel forced to him.

Gerard grins back crookedly, his eyes shining and crinkling around the corners.

"Hey, Iero," Brian yells from the tentway, nodding at the long line of cars moving towards them in the distance. His audience. "It's almost time."

 

\--

 

The dining table is a mess of half-eaten turkey legs and mashed potatoes, peas and corn and gravy, red wine staining the glasses. Ashlee had wanted to celebrate when Pete came home with big news concerning Chin’s, claiming that they so rarely got to these days.

"Beautiful meal, sweetheart," Mr. Simpson says as they waddle into the living room, bellies tight and full, grabbing Ashlee's shoulders from behind and smacking a kiss on her cheek. "You spoil your daddy rotten!"

"It was all Hayley," Ashlee smiles, patting her father on the back of his hand. The topmost buttons of her shirt have popped open, and for a while Pete can’t tear his eyes away from the cleft of her breasts.

"When did my girl get so modest?" Joe asks, and Pete has to hide his snicker in his shirtsleeve.

They sit and listen to the radio until the sun begins to set and Ashlee's eyes fall closed, her head rolling on her shoulder. Pete shares affectionate smiles with Joe and they leave her sleeping, going outside to enjoy the cool air.

"I want to talk to you, son. But. Tomorrow. The wine’s gone straight to my head," Joe says on the porch while Pete lights up lanterns that are hanging from the ceiling, a few of them perched on the porch railing. The grave look on Joe’s face is enough to make Pete feel nervous.

"Sure," he answers, blowing out a match and pocketing it. Joe looks at him for a while with blood-shot eyes before disappearing back indoors.

 

\--

 

Something is squirming in Frank's stomach and his heart is trying to break free from his ribcage. Lindsey's slicking his hair back with meticulous care, a hint of a smile on her face, while Brian gives Jimmy last minute advice on the introductions speech. "Remember your audience, Jim. No fucking obscenities tonight. And absolutely no bargaining with them."

"Yeah, yeah, take a chill pill, cocksucker, I could do this in my dreams."

Gerard wanders backstage with his hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He steps up to Frank and beams at him, then grins at Lindsey, says, "Here you are," and hands Frank his cigarette. "For the nerves."

"You're a lifesaver, seriously," Frank sighs, dragging in smoke and breathing it out through his nose, closing his eyes and focusing on Lindsey's hands in his hair and the too loud noise of the people on the other side of the stage, all waiting to see him perform a fucking miracle tonight.

It hits him then, cold sheer panic. "I can't fucking do this," he says, louder than he intended, pushing Lindsey's hands away and fleeing outside. He hunkers down by the box just outside the tent and digs his hands into his greased hair, making a mess of Lindsey's hard work in just seconds. He scoops fresh air into his lungs, but soon replaces it with cigarette smoke.

It doesn’t take long for Brian and Gerard to come looking for him. They loom over him while Frank smokes, close enough that his anxiety becomes twofold.

"Frank, don't fucking do this," Brian says, and Frank looks up to see Gerard frowning at Brian.

"If he doesn't feel up to it—"

"He's breaking my fucking balls – you're breaking my balls, Frank."

Frank focuses on the smoke and digs his fingers into his chest, painfully hard, rocking back on his heels. He's often imagined being on that stage, on any stage, doing something amazing like making snakes dance or throwing backflips and volts in the air.

"He's got stage fright," Bob comments from the tentway, studying him with a frown of his own. "If you're gonna hurl, just... be sure to do it some place I don't accidentally step on it, okay, kid?"

Frank lifts his head up enough to give Bob his best death glare. He just takes it, without a flinch, then turns away and heads back inside the tent. _Fucking Bryar_ , Frank glowers, pressing the stub of his cigarette in the dirt.

"I'll fucking do it," he says after a quiet, nervous moment, mostly single-mindedly, ignoring the angry flip his stomach makes.

Brian heaves a sigh of relief and nods, following Bob into the tent.

Gerard's smiling encouragingly, and Frank can't help giving him a small smile of his own. "What?" he asks when he can't hold his smile up any longer.

Gerard just shakes his head, his grin just growing, splitting his face.

"Oh, shit, what about the sheriff?" Frank asks when they're backstage again. Lindsey's finally given up on his hair and is instead talking with Jimmy, smoothing out the moth-eaten black jacket he's thrown on himself.

"Huh?" Gerard asks in a moment of confusion. "Oh, Stump? Frank, come on, you're far away from home. He doesn't know who you are."

"If you're sure," Frank says doubtfully, eyeing at the crowd from a crack in the tent. They look like they're growing tired of waiting. He wonders how much time he has left before the show.

It turns out that Gerard was right. Stump seems too distracted chatting with Brian to pay much attention to what’s happening on stage. Jimmy's managed to rile up the crowd really well, making promises Frank knows he can't keep.

"Just trust them to carry the show and go with it," Bob says in a moment of kindness, before giving Frank a hard shove to the stage, making him stumble his way to the spotlight.

The crowd goes silent. Everyone’s eyes are on Frank. Frank flinches as Jimmy wraps his long, spindly arm around his shoulders and yells loud enough to break ears, "And finally! Brother Francis Saaaaaint Anthonyy!" Like a goddamn baseball commentator. Frank's seen him listening to the games with Bob sometimes, sitting in Brian's truck with the windows rolled down and cheering or yelling at the car radio depending on the score. He’d rub the ache in his wrist and say stuff like, "If only I were there, if only, if only," staring into the distance, while Jimmy would shake his head or nod fervently.

"Let's hear it for the Holy Spirit! It can only touch those who believe! Who here feels the power? Who here wants to be saved!" Jimmy chants, then turns to Frank and hisses, "C'mon, debauchee, don't just stand there all stiff-like, take a bow or at least wave your hand to the audience."

"Uhhh," Frank rasps with a dry throat and takes an awkward bow, feeling stupid as soon as he's straightened up.

The show goes on in a blur. One moment he's standing there, fiercely hating himself while listening to Jimmy quoting the Bible at random and talking about the supposed miracles Frank's obviously never performed, the next Jimmy's hoppled into the audience, pushing an old woman in her wheeled chair towards the stage, telling everyone how Frank will make her walk again. Which, just no. He can't do that. He _can't_.

When she gets closer, she pushes down the scarf covering her face and gives Frank a wink. And Frank realizes with a start that he's just been winked at by Tegan Quin. With skills like that she should go to Hollywood and become the next Big Thing. Every twist and bend in her body, every crackle in her voice, the way she's just drawing sympathy from the clueless people in the audience: that girl's a goddamn con artist, but her gifts would go to a better use in the film industry.

"And now, my friends. I need each and every one of you to hold hands with the people next to you and focus all your energy on praying the Lord God! Brother Francis will show you the true power of faith!"

Frank stands there, blinking, waiting for something to happen. Jimmy saunters up to him and whisper-threatens him with so much impatience that Frank maybe wants to punch him. "Put your hands on her legs, or I swear to God."

Frank watches with morbid fascination as Tegan starts thrashing in the chair as soon as his hands touch her shins. After a while, she stops moving and collapses onto herself in the chair, panting hard. Her face is still hidden behind the scarf, her sharp chin the only thing peeking out. Jimmy coaxes her to stand up and walk, holding her hand in mock-support, and she's still all show, so exaggerated that Frank's nervous about it blowing all over.

But the audience is sold, that's not the problem, the problem comes when a thin, middle-aged man in brown clothes and a hat comes rushing through the people, struggling to carry an old woman in his arms.

"Help her!" he demands, resting her down on the ground with care, supporting her head in his lap. "She's dying, fucking help her."

"I—"

"I'm terribly sorry, good man," Jimmy rushes in, stepping in front of Frank. "But don't you see that Brother Francis is tired! Absolutely no more than one miracle a day, you don't want to exhaust our healer."

"He don't look too tired to me!" someone heckles, and another, "Yeah, what's the matter, you some kind of a fraud?"

The old woman rasps something, too quiet to make sense of her. Frank kneels down beside her and puts his hands on her chest. Her wrinkly, too loose skin peeks from under her nightgown, she feels almost rubbery to the touch.

Frank concentrates hard. Maybe if he manages to take a small amount of energy from everyone in the tent, he'll be able to cure her and no one will be hurt.

The woman stares at him with tired, brown eyes, lifting her hand up to cover hers with Frank's. She whispers something Frank can't quiet make out. He bends down, bringing his ear close to her mouth, listening to her weak protests. "Please, no. No."

"What?" Frank looks at her, confused.

"Please, don't." She reaches up to touch his cheek with the flat of her hand. "God takes what's His," she whispers, "God takes what's His. No man has the right to define that. No right."

"What's going on?" the man in the brown suit asks. "What are you doing? Why isn't she getting better?"

Frank stands up slowly, making sure she's as comfortable as she can be on the ground. "She said no," he says to himself, trying not to think how much her words reminded him of his mama, then repeats it louder, looking at the crowd. "This woman doesn't want to be healed. There's nothing more I can do for her. I'm sorry," he adds, speaking to the man.

He glances at Jimmy and then turns to walk away from the stage, shrugging out of the too-tight tailcoat, flinging it on the ground. He's not paying any more attention to the yells and the confusion behind his back. He's done here, he's done humoring these people. The evening's left nothing but a bad taste in his mouth.

He sits outside on the back of Brian's truck, letting the sounds of the cars and the people become a distant lull in his ears, gazing up at the evening sky: it never changes, it's always full of stars.

He falls asleep there, after a vague conversation with Brian, another one with Jimmy, a goodnight's wish for Gerard and a ‘thanks’ for bringing him his clothes. His frayed dungarees and the dirty white shirt are oddly comforting after having been forced to wear clown's clothes all evening.

The minister haunts his dreams. He tosses and turns on his hard, plywood bed, and gasps awake in the middle of the night. Every muscle, every bone in his body hurts, and patches of his skin feel raw and hot.

It had been a clear, cloudless day in the desert. Frank was standing there alone, in the middle of nothing, listening to a shrilly, tinny countdown from a loudspeaker. When the numbers came to zero, an explosion swept up the sand and dirt in the air and blew it towards him in a fast, suffocating cloud. In the middle of the storm the minister took shape, knelt down beside Frank, eyes black like the hem of his cassock that was flapping in the wind. He looked into Frank's eyes like he was searching for something, and said with a booming voice unlike anything Frank had ever heard before,

"Ye offspring of serpents, who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?"

Frank rubs at the tightness in his chest and his fingers bump against something smooth and solid. He digs out the old photograph from his chest pocket and studies it in the moonlight. The little boy in front of the Ferris wheel stares back at him with blank eyes. For all this time he's been carrying it around without a real purpose, just holding onto it like it matters somehow. But it's just a photograph. He considers throwing it away in the dirt, but then realizes that it's not his to throw away.

The next time he wakes up the sun is already high in the sky, burning hot on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He sits up and notices Gerard and Bob in the distance playing catch. Bob's holding his hand close to his chest and he has the mitt on, his back slightly bent, waiting for Gerard to chuck the ball at him. Gerard's frowning like the whole concept of the game is a total mystery to him, which, Frank thinks, it probably is.

Bob yells, "Come on, Gee, just like I showed you," and Gerard mumbles something Frank can't make out, takes aim and then chucks the ball in Bob's vicinity. It makes a strange curve in the air and changes course, flying past Frank's knee and hitting the truck's tailpipe, rolling underneath it.

There's something really fucked up with Gerard's aim, Frank thinks. But as they come running to him, he hears Bob proclaiming that Gerard's aim has really improved from the last time, and how he's actually putting some force into his pitch now, throwing with his whole arm instead of just his wrist.

"Christ, Frank, did I hit you?" Gerard despairs, grazing Frank's knee with his fingertips. He reeks of sweat, the front of his shirt is damp just below the collar.

"It hit the tailpipe," Bob grunts callously before Frank has a chance to reply, nudging Gerard away from Frank and dropping to his knees, peering under the truck.

Later, when Bob's been called away by Brian, and Frank's taken a quick shower in the makeshift shower that he'd helped put together behind the girls’ trailers, Frank asks Gerard about the photograph.

"No idea," Gerard shrugs, frowning at the photo. He shows it to Mikey and says that Mikey doesn't know either, but that he should ask Ray about it. "If somebody knows these things, it's Ray fucking Toro."

Frank's only seen Ray a few times before, and never talked to him. Ray's kind of a legend amongst the carnies, Frank's found out talking to people. He mostly stays inside his trailer that's been dubbed as the Management Trailer, an insider joke that Frank doesn’t really get, withdrawn from the rest of the carnival. Everybody knows Brian's the owner and the boss around here, but even Brian talks about Ray like he’s the real brains of the organization, the man with all the plans. Sometimes at night when Frank can't sleep -- or rather, _tries to stay awake_ \-- he lies on the ground near the Management Trailer with his head propped up on his arms and listens to Ray playing his guitar, letting the music penetrate his mind and cradle him like a child.

Ray tells him that he's been expecting him when Frank finally ventures in to his trailer. His hair is the first thing Frank notices, the fluffy, curly ball on top of his head bouncing gently while he moves.

"You knew I was gonna come see you? Did Gerard say something?" Frank asks, trying to tear his eyes from the hair, a voice inside his head much like his mama's chiding him for staring too long.

Ray looks at him, his eyes crinkled with amusement. "It was just a matter of time, Frank. Sooner or later everyone sees me."

"Everyone in the carnival you mean?" Frank asks, puzzled.

"Right, sure, what else would I mean?" Ray says, gesturing for him to sit down.

Frank eyes at Ray doubtfully for a moment before shrugging and taking a seat. He looks around, smiling at the cozy, lived-in atmosphere. It reminds him of Gerard and Mikey's trailer, even though it's much lighter here and there’s less fabric, no strange artifacts Frank can't figure out, and it lacks any specific smell that he would later be able to connect with the place.

"What's on your mind?"

"Huh?"

"As much as I appreciate the company," Ray says, and Frank wonders if he's just being sarcastic, "I'm curious, what brought you here today?"

"I thought you already knew."

"I can't read minds, Frank. The only one here that comes even close is Mikey. But even he -- well, it's not the same as driving a bike, I don't think."

Frank gets the photo from his pocket and hands it to Ray, watching his face change from thoughtful to surprised in a matter of seconds. "You know this kid?"

Ray gives the worn photograph minute study, frowning and turning it in his hands. Then he looks up at Frank and hands the photo back to him, shrugging his shoulders. "No idea," he echoes Gerard’s words. "Where did you even find it?"

"The supply trailer," Frank says, so disappointed. "Bob told me to clean it the other day."

Ray quirks his brow, his hair drooping at the front. "That's an old carnie prank, he's been doing that to all the rookies for as long as I can remember."

"Yeah, well, the trailer exists," Frank says, then corrects himself, "Or, existed. I was inside it, that's where the photo's from."

"That's just weird," Ray says unhelpfully. His voice is raspy and shrill, like he hasn’t been using it much.

"So you can't tell me anything?" Something about the photograph has started to feel important, like he really should figure this out.

"Uhhhh," Ray looks uneasy. He sinks his hand into his hair and scratches his head. "You could try your luck with uh, Ozzy. He used to run this place, when we were all just little kids. Getting older he started to kind of... lose it, and Brian bought the carnival from him for a song. He might have seen the kid around. I mean, this is our carnival, I recognize the Ferris wheel." Ray shows him the photo, pointing at the sign next to the ‘wheel. “Romance. It’s the same one we’re still using.”

"Great," Frank says, not sure how he could have missed it, excitement churning in his stomach. "Where can I find this Ozzy?"

Ray looks uneasy again. "He's sort of... in a rest home. When I said that he lost it, well, I really meant it."

Frank sinks back in his chair and looks at the photo. Something about the boy looks almost familiar. He can't pinpoint what it is, but the feeling in his gut is stronger than ever.

"Great, so. Where is this rest home?"

"That's the other thing. To get there, you'd have to travel through Babylon. That town's never been anything but trouble for carnies. It's... the people there make me nervous, you hear stories about them and know it's better to keep your distance."

"Babylon?" Frank wonders out loud. "It’s from the Bible, right? The name?”

“Are you a man of the Book?” Ray asks, giving him a curious look.

“Nah. But my mom, she made me go to church with her every Sunday, even when I became of age. I can still recite all the hymns and prayers by heart. You pick up a thing or two is all I’m saying."

"This thing," Ray says, "it's important to you."

"I don't know why, but strange things have been happening to me ever since I joined the carnival. Weird dreams, hallucinations, things that are there when they shouldn't be. I think if I could figure out even one of these things, maybe I'd feel like myself again."

Frank, surprised at his own forwardness, gets up from the chair. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I don't even know you."

"I think strangers sometimes make for better listeners," Ray smiles, reaching out for Frank. Frank shakes his hand, wondering why he never bothered to talk to Ray before.

"Thanks, man," he says and turns to leave. From the doorway he glances back at Ray, nodding at the guitar propped up against the wall. "Oh and, the way you play that guitar – fucking amazing."

Ray gives him a pleased smile, and Frank can almost see his hair fluffing up with pride.

 

\--

 

Pete's had a strange night, haunted by the kind of dreams that would make Ashlee and Joe, Hayley and anyone cower in fear and tell him never to speak of them again. The one thing he hates more than anything in his life is his own mind taunting him, whispering things he can't understand. _Love thyself_ , he thinks bitterly. If only it was that easy.

He woke up at the crack of dawn, eager to get away from his dreams. They're starting to get out of hand, and he's sure they're the kind of dreams that a man of his profession shouldn't be having in the first place.

After getting dressed in a crisp, clean cassock – Pete's starting to think there are worse things in life than keeping a maid – he got out of his room, careful not to step on any of the creaking floorboards, and spent a few hot moments looking into Ash's room through the crack in the door, admiring her body as she slipped out of the nightgown and into a sensible but stylish suit. And yeah, maybe that's not something a man in his profession should be doing either, especially since it’s his _sister_ he’s lusting after, but indulging himself in the thoughts and images of Ashlee's body and then jerking off in the bathroom is all too familiar to just suddenly stop doing.

He eats breakfast in solitude, wondering if he could use some of the scarier stuff from his dreams in his sermons to put the fear of God in his congregation. Most of his migrants have a tendency to take his words all too literally, though, completely missing the real point he tries to preach.

When the clock turns eleven, Pete makes his way to Joe's church. Standing in the middle ship, looking around the massive structure, he wonders why it felt so impossible to find room for his migrants here. Surely two denominations could coexist in such a place. His migrants shouldn’t be punished for wanting to follow Pete instead of Joe. Ever since Pete started having a following of his own, Joe’s been showing signs of regret for allowing Pete to convert to Methodism in his rebellious youth.

Joe's sitting on one of the pews, his head bent like he's nodding off, wearing his well-loved suit that he’s worn in all the important moments in his life. When Pete edges closer, he realizes that Joe’s encased in a book.

"Hello, Joe," he says, his voice echoing off the walls, making Joe flinch. He takes the seat next to him, thinking Joe looks a little spooked.

"Son," Joe says, just managing a lukewarm smile.

"Joe? Are you well?"

"Yes, yes. I was just reading, you managed to startle me."

"May I?" Pete asks, nodding at the book, taking it from Joe when he makes no objections. He reads the title on the cover and then looks at the page Joe had been reading from, holding the book open in his lap. There's a wood-cut picture on the page spanning from side to side, a furry, horned creature lurking behind a man's sickbed. On the next page the chapter title reads, EXORCISMUS IN SATANAM ET ANGELOS APOSTATICOS.

"Joe," Pete cracks a smile, "don't tell me you've become a papist."

"Just doing research," Joe says snappishly, taking back the book.

"On what subject," asks Pete although he thinks he already knows.

"The seductive nature of evil."

Pete snorts because yeah, he knows Joe like the back of his hand. But his amusement dies almost as fast as it came. He pushes his hand into his hair, feeling very stretched and worn-out. "I have so much to do," he confesses, thoughts still lingering on his migrants. Ashlee had walked him to the church, kissed him on the cheek and told him not to worry about the church hall today, she and the girls would turn the building into a respectable house of the Lord, but still his mind wandered.

"Maybe I can help you," Joe says, taking Pete's hand into his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Pete studies his ageing face, looking into his eyes as he calmly replies, "Ash told me. Baptismal water transforming into blood? Really, Joe."

"I know what I saw, Peter."

"Well it's a shame no one else did."

"Son, please. You must turn away from all of this before it's too late."

"Turn away from what?" Pete asks, leaning closer as Joe tries to pull his hand back. "Say it."

"Peter, there is a demon within you. Let me help you."

"There's no demon within me, but there's one within you. All men have sinned against God at least once in their lives. Even you, Joe."

"Let me go," Joe says, struggling to get away.

The distant sounds of hoofs and wagon wheels against stone pavement fill their ears. They watch as a younger Joe pulls on the reins, making the two black stallions come to a halt on the rain-washed road. He jumps down from his seat and walks to the side of the road, looking around.

A small, golden-haired girl clambers out of the wagon, ignoring Joe's orders to stay inside, and Pete realizes with a start that this must be the moment when his life changed course, when Joe Simpson found him hunched up and alone in a ditch, filthy and cold, and took pity on him.

The girl -- _Ashlee_ \-- runs to Pete’s side and demands to know his name, then grabs his hand and pulls him up, dragging him to Joe. She can’t be more than five summers old. She shows him off like he's a stray puppy that she must have, and she's adorable, so determined to save Pete’s life.

The vision comes to an end and Joe, twenty years older, turns to Pete, confused. "My greatest evil? Saving your life? Giving you refuge? Protecting and nurturing you?"

Pete shakes his head, terrified of what it all means. "No, this isn't -- it can't…"

"By your own words, the sin I must embrace, the evil that I have brought into this world --"

"Is me," Pete breathes out. He clambers up from the pew on shaky legs, steps up to the altar and kneels down, covering his face in his hands in shame. Jesus Christ manifests on the empty cross above his head and looks down at Pete, droplets of blood running down his forehead under the crown of thorns.

"It's not too late, son. Pray with me now. Beg the Lord God to have pity on you. Pray with me, pray that the demon leave you," Joe says fervently.

"But don't you see? There is no demon in me! The demon _is_ me." In a moment of clarity, he grabs a heavy candlestick from the altar and shoves it in Joe’s hands, kneeling back down in front of him and lowering his head. "You know what you have to do, Joe. Now, before it's too late!"

Joe hesitates, holding the makeshift weapon in his loose grip.

"If you ever loved me," Pete says, clenching his jaw, his whole body tensing up.

Joe raises the candlestick above his head. With a trembling voice he whispers, "Surely, goodness and loving-kindness shall follow me all the days of my life." Pete can feel something within him awakening, like a sixth sense that allows him to see into Joe's soul. He knows Joe can't bring himself to kill him, even when it is the only reasonable thing to do. "And I will dwell in the house of Jehovah for the length of the days," Joe rasps out, exhaling shakily. The candlestick makes a loud clatter on the stone floor when it slips from Joe's hands, rolling to Pete’s feet.

"Joe!" Pete yells after him. A forceful wind bangs the church doors closed when Joe tries to open them, not allowing him to exit. The same gust of wind blows out the dozens of candles, leaving them in darkness. Light only comes in through the stained glass windows and casts dim specks of color on the floor.

Pete grabs the candlestick and lunges at Joe.

 

\--

 

After breakfast Frank seeks Brian out and asks him about Babylon.

"It's just a town," Brian grunts around a cigarette, glancing distractedly at Frank. He's supervising the dismantling of the tents, barking out instructions that Frank knows just manage to irritate the rousties even more and not actually help get the job done.

"Ray thought otherwise."

"Yeah, well, there's no doubt that Ray is brilliant, but y'know what happens to people who never leave their house?"

"What's that?"

"They make mountains out of molehills. Reality bends in their minds, makes them imagine all these horror scenarios and worry about things that aren't even there, things that don't need worrying."

Frank frowns. "But he said nobody wants to go near that place."

"That's another thing. People like Ray tell their horror stories to poor, simple-minded, superstitious fools who spread them around to their friends and family. Soon the whole world is afraid of this one little town that's never done anything to them."

"So you've been to Babylon?"

"Nah, never, but it doesn't mean I'm not right."

 _Doesn't mean you're not wrong, either_ , Frank thinks, trying to ignore the dark feeling in his gut. But if he's going to go through with seeing Ozzy at the rest home, he'll be better off agreeing with Brian for now.

"So, you wouldn't mind going there? I mean, just to prove your point to everyone?"

"Hell no, these people would start a fucking riot."

Frank tucks his fingers into his pockets and sighs.

"Why’re you asking around about Babylon all of a sudden, anyway?" Brian asks, giving him a suspicious look.

"It's just," Frank starts, and decides to be honest with him for once. "I'm looking for answers, and Ray hinted something about maybe finding them if I talked to this guy, Ozzy—"

"Ozzy?" Brian gives a startled laugh. "What the hell has Ray been telling you? I'm sorry, man, but the last time I saw Ozzy he didn't even know where he was. The man's all messed up in the head. You wouldn't get anything rational out of him even if you tried."

"I get it," Frank says, and tries not to let Brian's words bring him down.

The next morning is spent in trucks and trailers. They've been driving south ever since Frank came along, but also inching west, away from the coast. Tegan and Sara have been making plans to leave the troupe when they get to California to head towards Hollywood. Frank had asked Lindsey about this, about why she didn’t seem worried about the twins leaving the cooch show for good, but she just smiled and said that it wasn't the first time the girls had made plans. “No one ever leaves”, she’d said, “and when they do, they always come back”.

Frank spends the drive dozing off, not really wanting to sleep but too exhausted to stay awake. The back of Brian's truck has become his favorite place to spend the drives, the trailers are just too stuffy and cramped for him. He's always preferred open spaces, clear air to breathe. Outside his mind is clearer, and he doesn't feel like he's suffocating.

Music drifts to his ears from inside the truck, cheery and melodic, and if he closes his eyes and concentrates well enough, he can hear Bob in the front seat drumming along to the songs in perfect rhythm, his hands making sounds against his thighs.

As far as Frank knows, they should be driving past Babylon a safe fifty miles to the north of the town some time before noon tomorrow. It would be easy to just hop off the truck and make his way towards the spook town by himself. He could hitchhike his way to California and catch up with Brian and the rest of the gang there if he wanted, or he could just leave them all for good, and make his own choices from then on. He closes his eyes and thinks about Gerard and Brian and the girls, and wonders whether they'd miss him if he was gone.

In the evening when the sun is starting to set, the trucks come to a halt. People clamber out of their trucks and trailers, and Frank watches as they gather around the riverbank. He sits up slowly and listens to Brian’s loud cursing that’s scaring all the birds away from the branches of the trees.

He climbs down from the truck and finds Gerard standing just outside his trailer, his eyes bleary like he just woke up. "What's going on?" he asks, poking Gerard to the side to catch his attention.

"Oh, Frankie," he says distractedly, draping his arm around Frank’s shoulders like he doesn’t even notice what he’s doing, chewing on his bottom lip. He squeezes the ball of Frank’s shoulder and tucks his fingers inside his shirtsleeve, yawning wide.

"Why're we stopping? I thought the plan was to just keep going through the night."

"The bridge," Gerard motions with his free hand. Frank turns to look at the river, squinting his eyes for a better view in the dim evening.

"Holy shit," he breathes out, finally noticing the mess of the should-be-bridge spanning the river's width. It looks like a herd of angry elephants had tried to run across it, crashing the whole thing, a total mess of bits and pieces of wood in the water.

Brian hits the hood of his truck with the flat of his hands and leans his head and arms against it, muttering something to Bob.

"We're camping out here tonight," Bob calls out, addressing the crowd. "Find yourselves a place to crash but don't start setting up any fucking tents. We start moving tomorrow by sunrise after Schechter's decided which way we go."

Bob walks past Gerard and Frank, a frown on his face, not even glancing in their direction. He finds Lindsey and bluntly asks her if there's room for him in their trailer. She gives Bob a warm smile and lets him in, steering him with a hand on the back of his neck. The twins follow them inside, hand in hand.

Frank raises his eyebrows, but finds Gerard glaring daggers at their retreating backs.

He feels awkward when he says, "Um, well, I'll see you in the morning, I guess," motioning at Brian's truck. Brian's just stopped banging his head against the hood and is now sitting in the driver's seat, staring into space.

Gerard says, "Wait," and grabs Frank's wrist, a soft look on his sleepy face. "The armchair in my trailer's way more comfortable than Brian's old truck. You look like you're in serious need of a good night's sleep. Whaddya say?"

"I - uh," Frank says. Gerard's hand on his wrist feels cool and firm. Truthfully, he'd prefer to sleep outdoors, but spending the night with Gerard doesn't feel like such a bad alternative. "I guess --"

"Great! Come on, man, let's go."

They settle down in the trailer, Gerard fussing with the blankets and cushions, glaring at Mikey every now and then. Frank curls up in the chair where his cards had been read and tries to relax.

"Here," Gerard shoves a dark, satiny bundle into Frank's lap with nervous energy, his earnest gestures making Frank feel more at ease, then steps back and gives him an expectant look.

For an awkward moment Frank struggles with the comforter, somehow gets it tangled around his legs and almost slams face down on the floor in the process. _What the fucking fuck?_ he thinks, breaking free from the tangles.

"Um, you can use my pillow," Gerard says, face so earnest that Frank doesn't know what to do with himself. "It's way better than all of these other lumpy things."

"Gee," Frank sends a smile his way from under the soft comforter. "Keep your pillow, man, everything's good just like it is."

Gerard looks at him with doubtful eyes. "Only if you're sure."

"I'm positive," Frank says and yawns to prove his point. It grows so wide that his jaw clicks. "Thanks, Gee," he adds, the stuffy air and the warm bed covers softly pacifying him. "And Mikey Way, thank you for putting up with me. You're both pretty fuckin' awesome people."

"He says you should try and get some sleep, Frank," Gerard says with a quiet voice and makes himself comfortable in the chair by Mikey's bedside, crossing his arms behind his head and letting out a soft sigh. Maybe spending the night with Gerard and Mikey isn't such a bad idea after all, Frank muses. Maybe he'll finally get to have a full night's sleep devoid of bad dreams.

 

\--

 

There's a stone inside of Pete's chest, heavy and smooth. He can feel it pressing against his sternum, shifting painfully every time he breathes. He wonders if he should tell the doctor, or the pretty nurse, about the stone, but then he realizes that there's no real use in telling them, they can't fix him up when there's nothing concrete to fix.

Joe looks peaceful with his eyes closed and his whole body relaxed, but Ashlee can't stop fluffing up his pillow and smoothing out the wrinkles from his already smooth blanket.

 _Paralyzed_ , the doctor had said, shaking his head, and the moment keeps repeating itself in Pete's head over and over like a broken record.

He sits in the chair beside Joe's bed all night, next to Ashlee, and watches her body tremble as she sobs into her hands.

 

\--

 

All too soon the sun starts warming Frank's face and drilling into his eyes through the uncovered window. He had awoken in the middle of the night once or twice, cold sweat shaking his body, but when he tried to think about his dreams, they slipped out of his memory too fast to make any sense of.

Standing up, he stretches out the kinks in his muscles, then runs a hand through the messy mop of his hair, looking around. Gerard's still snoring softly, open-mouthed and the side of his face squished into his pillow.

Frank feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he looks at Gerard. He stumbles to him and pokes him in the arm, smirking at Mikey who raises his eyebrows at him.

"Nooo," Gerard mumbles, swatting blindly at Frank's hand, burrowing deeper into the pillows. Frank cracks up and it startles Gerard awake, and then Frank can’t stop laughing at him.

Gerard’s face is one big scowl when he follows Frank outside.

"What the shit," Frank says, almost bumping into a heavily tattooed man standing by the trailer.

"Jeph!" Gerard beams and pulls the guy into a friendly hug.

"G-Man!" Jeph's smile is big and dopey when he throws his arms around him.

"What're you guys doing here?" Gerard asks as he pulls back, waving at a bunch of other people Frank's never seen before, but judging by their appearances, he guesses they’re carnies as well.

"As Bert was just saying," Brian says, stepping closer with a short, disheveled man under his arm, "they seem to be sharing our problems." Frank watches as Bert breaks free from Brian's grasp and crashes into Gerard's arms, hugging him so fiercely that Frank's worried about him bruising Gerard's lungs.

"Where's Dan?" Gerard asks after breaking free from Bert. His face is flushed, surprised and happy.

"Our Gepetto's checking out the damage," Jeph laughs. "Quinn went to supervise, although I bet he's just waiting for the perfect moment to get back at 'Sides for the prank he pulled last night. Maybe push him in the water."

Bert's laugh sounds like the yip of a small dog: high and drilling. Looking at Jeph and Bert snickering together, Dan and Quinn wrestling on the riverbank, Frank is reminded of a pack of young wild dogs.

"So have you decided which way we take?" Bob asks, rubbing at his wrists. One road leads straight to Babylon, the other steers away from their original path so much that it'll take days of travel to get back on the right course.

Brian's amused grin drops fast, his usual frown taking its place. "Honestly? I don't fucking know."

"Why don't we all just camp out here today and catch up with everyone. I'm sure we can figure something out before tomorrow," Jeph suggests, and everyone agrees, even Brian after a moment's hesitation. What rush Brian always has is anyone's guess, the guy's obsessed with keeping things on perfect schedule.

"I'll get Mikey out," Gerard says, beaming. "Fresh air'll do him good, also I can't wait to see his face when he sees you guys."

Bert grins and says, "I bet he already knows we're here."

The girls start piling out of their trailer. When Lindsey notices Bob, she gives him a wink and a very private smile. Jimmy's already sitting in a truck with the radio on. People are setting up breakfast by the riverside, some messing around in the river, enjoying the clean, fresh water. Brian pulls Frank aside, claiming he has business to discuss with him.

"What is it?" Frank asks, leaning up against the side of Brian's truck.

Brian stands tall, wearing what Frank has started to refer to as his boss-face. "Look, I know how much you hated doing that revival nonsense the other day. I never really got around to thanking you for going through with it."

Frank shrugs. "It's no problem, man. I'm part of the gang, right? We look out for each other."

Brian's mouth turns into a pleased, lopsided smile. "I'm glad you feel that way."

"Um," Frank says, after a pause. "Was that all?"

"Yeah, except --" Brian digs out a thin wad of bills from his pocket and hands it over. "Your reward. You've deserved it, if it wasn't for you we would have lost the whole day's earnings."

"Thanks, Brian. You're a good guy." Frank pockets the money and gives Brian an awkward smile. "I just, I want you to know you can count on me."

"Okay, okay," Brian grins, patting him on the back and then trying to cuff his head. Frank ducks away from him, laughing. "Run along now, go play with the other kiddies."

"Hey, Brian," Frank calls after him, sobering up. "You good? I mean, with this bridge thing and all?"

"Yeah, I mean. I'm not walking on air or anything, but things could be a lot worse. It's just that I don't think the troupes will be all that happy with me when they hear what I have to say."

 

\--

 

The church hall is already packed with curious Okies when Pete steps in early in the morning. He shakes a few hands and kisses some babies, gives people half-assed blessings, but his mind is still stuck inside that hospital room. He had left Ashlee at the hospital at the crack of dawn but told her to go home and sleep, she'd be no use to Joe if she wasn't strong enough to even take care of herself. Joe had woken up some time in the night, unable to talk or move, but the look he had regarded Pete with was something he doesn't think he can ever forget.

"The place is starting to look really good," a young man quips from the doorway to his office, rasping the door with his knuckles.

"All thanks to my sister and her friends," Pete says, coming to greet the man. He offers him a hand to shake, which the man takes with a wide grin.

"I'm William Beckett from the KMTR radio in Hollywood. But I'm sure a man of your status has no time for something so mundane like listening to the radio."

"My sister loves the radio," Pete says. "She listens to music every night for hours on end. I sometimes catch the game just because Joe always wants to talk about it the next morning."

"That would be, uh, Ashlee and Joe Simpson?" William asks, racking his brain.

Pete is surprised. "Yeah, how'd you know them?"

William gives him a big, cheesy grin. "A good reporter always does his research," he says grandly, puffing out his chest. He sounds as young as he looks, and Pete can't find the energy or will to talk to him much longer.

"Look, as awed as I am that a star reporter such as you walks into my church, there's just a lot of stuff going on right now and—"

"Say no more, Brother!" William interrupts, wildly gesturing with his hands. "I don't want to keep you from your duties, I just came to ask you if you'd consider talking on the radio sometime."

"What?"

"The word on the street is that you're one hell of a speaker, and our station's been looking for a radio preacher for a while."

Pete blinks slowly, utterly perplexed. "You want me to preach a sermon on the radio?"

"Every weekend if you'd like. But first I'm gonna have to come and hear your next sermon in this fine church of yours. No worries, it's just a formality, the hundreds of people praising you can't all be lying, and I'm sure they're not under some freak spell of yours, either," William winks and nudges Pete's arm with his sharp elbow.

"That's fine," Pete says dryly, rubbing at his arm, "everyone's welcome to my church."

"So you'll agree to speak on the radio?"

"I guess I will. I don't really see any reason not to. Um, I'm sorry for rushing you out, Mr. Beckett, but there's been an emergency in the family and I have a lot of stuff on my mind that I need to sort out."

"Oh," William looks concerned. "I'm sorry to hear that, nothing too serious I hope?"

"My," Pete pauses. He's never felt comfortable calling Joe his dad or even his adoptive father, and after puberty he mostly stopped referring to Ashlee as his sister, although it sometimes slips out without him even noticing. "Uh, Joe was... mugged last night, he's in the hospital."

"Good lord! That's terrible!" William exclaims. "I hope they catch whoever did this to him."

Pete smiles grimly. "Yeah, we all do."

After William's gone, Pete wanders around in the house. The main room's big enough to fit a couple hundred people. He recognizes some of his migrants cleaning up the floors and windows, carrying chairs in. It's hard to believe that the room was once occupied with showgirls and dirty, horny old geezers every single night. The carnality of it all excites Pete more than he'd be willing to admit to anyone.

The second floor is reserved for young orphans, kids whose parents drought has taken, kids who'd be begging for food in street corners and sleeping in alleyways. It had been Ashlee's idea from the start, and Pete had no reason to turn her down. For all his life Pete believed that Ash was the sole force keeping him on the right path, not letting him stray. Now he's afraid of what he might do to her if things keep progressing this way.

Two kids run past him in the hallway and disappear into their rooms, laughing with that childlike indifference, and suddenly Pete finds it very hard to breathe. He tugs at his collar, stumbling out of the house, the stone inside of him shifting upwards, blocking his windpipe, forcing him to gasp for air.

The harsh midday sun hits him in the eyes and beads of sweat start forming on his temples. He leans against the wall of the house and tears away his clerical collar, breathing heavy and hard. He clutches at the white stripe of fabric in his fist and clenches his eyes shut, praying for forgiveness.

 

\--

 

It's a slow day for Frank. He's spent most of it sitting at the breakfast table with a mug of coffee, listening to Bert and Quinn's stories from the road. Sometimes Jeph and Dan walk by and add details to their stories, but soon they wander off again, similar smirks adorning their faces. Gerard occasionally asks questions about the places Bert had promised to visit and his eyes light up whenever Bert digs out small souvenirs from his worn-out backpack and presents them to him. Cigarette lighters with intricate engravings, matchboxes, semiprecious stones, incense and a brand new, handsome deck of Tarot cards.

"He's like a magpie," Bert crows delightedly. "Attracted to shiny things!"

Gerard juts out his lip and glowers. "I'm not like a motherfucking bird!"

"Yeah, except that your hair totally looks like a bird's nest in the morning," Frank says in jest.

Mikey quirks his lips a smidgen, eyes shining at Frank. Bert cracks up as if on cue, and Frank thinks if Gerard's a magpie then Bert is definitely a mockingbird. Quinn's stayed quiet throughout the teasing, but he's constantly keeping a close eye on Bert, sitting a little closer when Bert's attention is focused on Gerard. The more time Frank spends observing the trio, the more curious he gets. There’s a lot of history between them, much more than they’re letting on.

Frank's attention starts to stray when the conversation steers back to reminiscing. The names they mention -- Kitty, Amanda, Geoff -- have no meaning to Frank, so he doesn't even bother to try and keep up. Even with all the hours of sleep he got last night his brain still feels disgustingly fuzzy, like it's wrapped up in a thick layer of cotton. He's pretty sure that he shouldn't have been dreaming about any big explosions, and the earsplitting ringing after the countdown was something he had never even heard before, so how could he have dreamed it? And what's the deal with the creepy minister? Why does this one man keep haunting his dreams?

He closes his eyes just for a second and he's already swept away in another dream.

He's running again, this time across a big cornfield, the cobs so young and firm that they cut small scratches on his skin when he rushes past them. He chances a look behind him and gasps, dread creeping in. In the distance he can make out the shape of the bull-like man, his tattoo spanning his entire upper body, the branches of the tree curling over his ribs. He’s walking in a steady pace but somehow he's still gaining on Frank. Frank tries to speed up but the cobs are growing thicker now, suffocating him, not letting him through. The terrible burning pain in his thighs makes his legs shake and he tumbles down, his palms hitting the ground. He presses his face down and draws in heavy breaths of air, listening to the steady pace of his pursuer growing closer.

"Frank? Frank! Frankie, c'mon, wake up, man," Gerard's voice pierces through his dream. He thinks if Gerard didn't wake him up at the most opportune moments, he would have already been scared to death by these dreams.

"Bwuh," Frank says into his arm, feeling drowsy. He realizes that the skin there is wet and angry red. He must have been biting his arm while he slept, his body numb with terror. The pain is only now starting to register. "Ow, goddamn it."

"Must've been some dream," Quinn comments, arching his brows. Bert's staring at him like he's some kind of a freak, but Gerard's hand running up and down his back is making everything feel much better.

"Shit. Did I um..."

"You were screaming," Gerard says apprehensively. Frank doesn't dare to turn his head to see the expression on Gerard's face; his worried voice is enough to make Frank feel like a total idiot.

"Understatement of the year," Bert says with a nervous huff of a laugh.

"Sorry," Frank presses his face into his palms and wants the fucking ground to swallow him up. _Please, God, I wouldn't say no to a nice little lightning strike, either,_ he thinks, face disgustingly clammy in his hands.

"Frank," Gerard breathes out. His voice is so quiet that it feels like he's only talking to him, like no one else needs to hear what he has to say. "No matter what, don't ever apologize for your dreams, Frankie, because that's just fucked up. You can’t control them." Gerard glances at Mikey and then runs his hand along the ridges of Frank's spine with more vigor, straying his fingers in his sweat-curled hair and combing it away from his burning neck.

"D'you wanna tell me about it?" Gerard whispers close to Frank's ear, his jaw moving on Frank's shoulder, his forehead almost touching the side of Frank's head.

Frank shakes his head and pulls away, giving Gerard a tight smile. "Maybe later."

"Okay," Gerard drops it surprisingly fast, just squeezes the slope of Frank's shoulder and then pulls away from him completely, giving him space.

But Bert and Quinn are still keeping a wary eye on Frank, and Gerard's worrying his lip and giving him that look, like he wants to pull Frank aside and have a deep conversation with him, which, just no. That's the last thing Frank wants. He gets up from the table and mumbles something about needing to stretch his legs a little, to clear his head, and skips off before anyone has a chance to react to him.

He walks around for a while, his hands tucked in the pockets of his dungarees, says hi to people when he passes by them but doesn't stop to talk to them. There's Lindsey by the river, scrubbing at a silky nightgown in the water while talking to Jimmy, Tegan and Sara practicing a difficult-looking choreography and some of Bert's guys that Frank's never talked to drinking from dusty, green bottles and wolf-whistling the twins. For a second he wonders if he should tell the guys to fuck off -- he wants to, so much that it’s in the set of his jaw, the flex of his fingers -- but he seems to be the only one bothered by them.

Sara beams and waves at Frank, a large feather attached to her wrist with string, then turns back to her sister as they continue their dance. Maja, one of Bert's girls, sits down on a trunk and gives both sisters sultry looks that they reciprocate.

Gabe's training his snakes outside his trailer and Vicky's sitting with him, brushing her hair while Gabe makes a couple of thin, yellow snakes sway to the tune of his whistled melodies.

He finds Brian, Bob, Jepha and Dan behind one of the brightly painted trailers. Brian's perched on a box in the middle of their little half square while Jeph is doing something to his arm.

"Hey, Iero!" Brian says, motioning him over with his other arm. "Come see the master at work."

"What's going on?" Frank asks, stepping closer to peer over Jeph's hunched back. "Oh, Christ. Awesome," he breathes as he watches Jepha working on a picture on Brian's skin with a tattoo gun. He’s seen one up so close only once before and that was when he got his numbers on his wrist, not really the high point of his life.

"It's just a hobby," Jepha says with modesty, his mouth quirked up in a pleased smile.

"Yeah, he's only done every single tattoo on his whole crew," Brian says exasperatedly, giving Jepha a slight nudge with his foot, careful not to jostle him too much. "And just look at that crew, you don't find more heavily tattooed people anywhere in the world, no matter where you look. It's kind of a tradition that whenever our paths cross Jepha draws a new design on me," he adds, grinning.

"We have to do it away from prying eyes though, don't wanna risk at Gerard walking in on us and getting a fucking panic attack," Dan says, chuckling to himself. Bob slaps him on the hip from the box he's perched on.

Frank gives Brian a confused look.

”Gerard gets really freaked out around needles or anything needle-like,” Brian explains, “which is kind of ridiculous considering he's lived in a carnival for all his life. By now he should be used to _everything_.”

"Can I, um --" Frank doesn't really know what he's asking. Everything about this whole tattoo business is just new and fucking fascinating to him.

"Do you wanna try it out?" Jepha asks, holding up the hand-sized machine for Frank, smiling at him encouragingly.

"Just not on me," Brian retorts, pulling back his arm. Next to him Bob snorts. "You can stick that needle wherever, I don't fucking care, just stay away from me."

Frank grins and snatches the machine from Jeph and waltzes up to Brian, advancing on him, snickering when Brian jumps from his seat and yells out in protest.

"Fuck off," Brian exclaims, keeping Frank at an arm's length with his fingers around Frank's wrists. Frank wrestles with Brian for a while, just for the hell of it, but eventually gives up and lets Brian push him away.

"Have a seat," Dan says with that dopey smile of his, nudging at the box with the side of his foot.

Frank doesn't hesitate. He drops down on the box and holds out his arm, feeling every bit like the kid in the candy store he must look like. Jeph chuckles as he takes the tattoo machine back from Frank and plunks down on another box, his knee pressing into the outside of Frank's thigh.

"So, Mr. Iero," Dan says, all showmanship. "What'll it be? Jepha can do it all, take the stars from the sky and put them on your skin, the birds from the trees --" Frank glances up, there's only vultures circling the sun, waiting, always just waiting for someone to drop dead from the heat. "Or maybe you're into bigger stuff, tigers and dragons, black bears with their long snouts and knife-sharp teeth—"

"No!" Frank cries out, yanking his arm back and blinking fast against the film of images flashing in front of his eyes. The huge black bear from his dream is too sharp and real in his vision.

"No?" Dan asks, utterly put off by Frank's reaction.

Frank shifts uncomfortably, ignoring Bob's curious look and Brian's confused face. "I'll take the stars," he says with determination, holding out his hand to Jepha once more.

 

\--

 

Pete finds himself outside of town, walking down the dirt road in the burning sunlight. The stench of his own sweat wafts around him like a cloud; he feels dirty and repugnant, his linen shirt sticking to his skin and making him itch all over.

What he did to Joe he can't even bring himself to think about.

He passes a road sign the shape of an arrow, pointing towards the town, and kicks stones with the toes of his shoes. The smell of smoke hits his nose before he notices a campfire and three travelers sitting in a semi-circle around it.

"Is there enough room for one more weary traveler?" Pete calls from afar. His eyes sting from the smoke, but his chest is heavy from guilt and remorse.

A middle-aged man with a spiky beard nods, lifts a bottle to his cracked lips and takes a hefty swig, the liquid making splashing noises against the glass.

Pete sits down on the horizontal tree trunk, sighing as he wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs.

"Tell me, brother," another man says, looking at Pete with red, watery eyes. "What's a man like you doing wandering around out here?"

"What kind of man do you take me for, _brother_?" Pete asks dryly, fingers moving over his knees, scratching and scraping.

"Well, you ain't one of us: too clean, too soft." The men's laughter is like the crackle of burning wood. Pete grits his teeth, clenching his hands into tight fists, staring into the fire.

"I've seen him before," an old man rasps, his left eye blank and blind, right one clear and blue. "Heard him preachin' in the town."

"You a man of God, stranger?" Chuckles asks, offering Pete a swig from his bottle. It's sun-warm and burns in his throat, but it also calms his nerves and lets his sadness surface.

"I think," Pete murmurs, hunching up his shoulders, swallowing hard, "I think I've lost my God."

 

\--

 

It's like a small patch of the night sky is permanently captured on Frank's forearm, red and black stars scattered all around his skin. Jepha had warned him about the pain before he started working on his arm, but Frank had welcomed the sting. It had been easy to focus on, it hadn't left much room for his mind to wander.

After watching Jepha showcasing his skills for a while, Brian had gone to seek out Bert, wanting to talk to him about their itinerary. But everyone already seemed to know their decision, the tension rising as the day progressed.

Walking amongst the trucks and trailers, Frank notices three shapes in Ray's trailer, two of which are standing still, the third one pacing nervously. Stepping closer, he can hear heated voices and make out a few chopped sentences: _Babylon_ \-- _fucking crazy_ \-- _Hey, Ray, live a little!_

Gerard and Mikey's trailer is empty, but he finds Mikey sitting in his wheel chair by the river, accompanied by Lindsey, Quinn, Jimmy and Sara. They’ve managed to get a fire going and they're roasting sausages, their faces open and happy. The orange gleam of the fire blends together with the colors of the sunset and the smoke is a thick cloud over their heads.

"Hey, Frank!" Sara calls, waving with her whole arm. "You hungry? I saved some beans and veggies for you!"

Frank smiles, his stomach growling at the mention of food. "I'm famished."

"Come sit with us," Lindsey says, reaching out for his wrist, pulling Frank down to her lap. Frank lets out a surprised yelp, then wiggles and twists his body to get more comfortable, leaning the back of his head on her chest as she wraps her arms around his waist.

Gerard and Tegan join the group just as Lindsey's finished telling Frank how she got that rooster tattoo on her left upper arm and Frank's wolfed down all the food from his plate. Frank has to do a double take. Gerard’s hair has lost so much length and color that at first glance Frank didn't even identify him as Gerard. Tegan's hair is the same color: ghostly white, almost translucent.

"Wow, look at you!" Sara exclaims, getting up from the rock she'd been perching on and hugging her sister. "Where'd you get the dye from?"

"Dan the produce man," Gerard grins bashfully, quickly letting go of Tegan's hand when he notices Frank.

"He's such a gofer," Tegan says as Sara runs her fingers through her locks.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sara pouts. "What if I wanted to dye mine?"

"Psh. We can't have two blondes in our show, sis. I mean, think about it. We're way hotter like this. Black and White. Chocolate and Vanilla. Coal and Moonstone."

Frank gets up from Lindsey's lap and moves to sit on top of a large tree stump, and Gerard takes the empty space between him and Mikey.

"What?" Gerard says after a while with that lopsided smile of his, and Frank realizes he'd been staring.

"Your fucking hair," Frank blurts out, hands itching in his lap to touch. Gerard turns his head to look at Frank, smiling, dimples and all, and it's the first time his face is completely uncovered, no clumps of hair over his eyes and cheeks. It's not even just that his hair is different, but the way he carries himself, shoulders a little wider, back a little straighter. "What the hell?"

Gerard's smile falters, and he pulls his lip between his teeth, worrying it like he’s afraid that Frank doesn’t like his new look. "I didn't think it was that bad."

"What? No," Frank says quickly, letting out a breathless laugh. "It's not that, I didn't mean. It's just different, okay?" He glances up at Mikey and sees him doing that weird, tiny smile of his, just the corners of his mouth quirking up. "Good different."

"Oh," Gerard brightens up, although his face isn't completely devoid of worry. _Whatever_ , Frank thinks, Gerard must know how fucking amazing he looks.

"I'm just curious what brought this on," he prompts. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sara fluffing up Tegan's hair and twirling it around her fingers. Jimmy's poking at the burning firewood with a stick, watching as the wood crackles and releases sparks in the air.

"Um," Gerard says, looking at his hands. He shrugs his shoulders, pink spreading out from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. "Tegan and I were just talking -- it was kinda her idea."

"She cut your hair?"

"Yeah, that part was totally more awesome than the actual dyeing. I thought I got bleach in my eyes and kinda freaked out a little."

"Not just a little, you freaked out a lot," Tegan yells, laughter erupting all around her.

"It was pretty bad," Gerard admits, looking sorry for himself.

And okay, Frank has this total, inordinate fondness for Gerard, sometimes he just wants to grab him and hug the living shit out of him.

"Oh! Mikey, Tegan said she could give you a haircut, too," Gerard says, turning to face his brother. Frank can almost see the panicked look Mikey's giving Gerard, and Gerard quickly jumps to placate him but with a lot of exasperation. "Okay, okay, jeez. It was just a suggestion! It's just hair, you don't have to get all sensitive about it."

Frank sniggers. "Hey, can I touch it?" He really just wants to take the back of Gerard's head in his hand and drive his hand up along his skull, to feel that short hair against the skin of his palm.

Gerard gives him a weird look but nods, hesitating just a moment before lowering his head.

It's coarser than it looks, almost like dry hay, and it prickles against Frank's palm. As he runs his hand in wide, sloppy circles on Gerard's head, Gerard starts to relax, the huge smile spreading on his face matching the one that's threatening to take over Frank, which is the only reason he's not feeling totally dumb right now. He scratches Gerard's head like he'd do to a dog and Gerard kind of pushes into his palm, his eyes falling shut.

"Holy shit!" Bob's voice breaches the soft cocoon Frank’s wrapped up in. Frank snatches his hand back, hating himself for feeling fucking guilty all of a sudden. "What the shit happened to you?"

"Um?" Gerard says, flailing his hand before pushing it into his hair.

"I think he looks totally awesome," Frank says with ferocity, challenging Bob to disagree with him.

Bob gives him an annoyed scowl. "I didn't say he doesn't, dipshit." He turns back to Gerard and gives him a small smile and both thumbs up, then goes to sit between the twins, says something to Tegan that gets her grinning as she drapes her arm around his shoulders and smacks a kiss on the scruff on his cheek.

Frank sighs and stares at the fire, not sure what just happened.

"Hey, your arm." Gerard's voice interrupts Frank's thoughts. He takes Frank's hand into his, tracing the outline of one of the bigger stars with gentle fingers. It's not dark enough yet to see stars in the sky, which makes the tattoos on his arm feel more special. Gerard's face is really soft but kind of pale, the angel's kiss below his eye glaringly pink. "You're just going on about my hair, but this is way bigger stuff."

"I honestly didn't even remember it," Frank says with a laugh, looking at his arm.

"Stars symbolize achievement and authority, and most of all hope," Gerard murmurs, giving Frank's arm minute study. "Does your arm hurt?"

"Nah," Frank lies, but hisses when Gerard swipes his finger over a trail of stars.

"Liar. Why didn't you heal your arm?" Gerard asks quietly, careful not to let others hear their conversation.

"That'd be like cheating."

"You're practically wasting your gift not doing anything."

" _Gerard_."

"Frank," Gerard whispers, lacing his fingers with Frank's, palm against palm. "Just do it."

"Do what?" Frank’s eyes widen, a bad feeling creeping into his chest.

"Take some of my energy," Gerard smiles, like what he's offering is no big deal.

"And hurt you in the process? No way." Frank pulls his hand back, tucking it safe under his ribs. He eyes the people around them, getting a few curious looks. But no one’s really paying attention to them, the festive mood’s already caught up with everyone.

"You wouldn't take too much, just enough to get rid of the sting."

"Shut up, Gerard. Just shut up."

"You're so stubborn. God."

"You're stubborn," Frank says petulantly, matching Gerard's glare with his own. Gerard's crazy if he thinks he's gonna hurt his friends -- to hurt _Gerard_ \-- in order to feel better himself. Sure, he did that when he was still a kid, cured his stomach ache or bronchitis while walking through a crowd of people, or while being bored at Sunday mass, without really even realizing it, but he's not a kid anymore, he has to take responsibility for his actions just like everybody else, has to be able to tell right from wrong. And this is wrong, so blatantly wrong that he can't understand how Gerard thinks it's okay to even suggest it.

Gerard heaves a sigh and says, "I didn't think it was that big a deal. It's not like I think you'd hurt me, I know you'd never do that."

Frank mulls it over for a while, searching for the right words. "It's just the principle of it, y'know? I know you wouldn’t do that either if you could."

Gerard draws his brows together, studying Frank. Then his face brightens a little and he nods, putting on a crooked smile. "Yeah, when you put it that way, yeah, okay."

"Okay?"

Gerard nods again and replies, "Okay."

More people are gathering around the fire now. Ryland starts singing some stupid campfire song, which others quickly join, and soon there's an out of tune camp choir and people dancing and twirling like the soft flames of the fire, enjoying the evening. Bob's still sitting with Tegan and Sara on the rock, Lindsey behind him with her arm draped around his chest, chin hooked over the slope of his shoulder. Frank takes Gerard's hand back in his, resting the bundle of them on his thigh, pointedly not looking at Gerard even though he can feel Gerard's eyes on him, studying him for a long, long time.

 

\--

 

It's the first time since he was a little kid that Pete's spent the whole night outdoors. There are cricks all around his body, his clothes dusty and sticking to his skin where he's sweated the most in the heat of the white-hot morning sun. His mouth tastes like starch and grains of sand are crunching between his teeth. The cherry on top is that mother of all hangovers even though he doesn't think he drank all that much last night. He wonders if his subconscious is trying to tell him something with the sudden dreams about the carnival, he's been away from that lifestyle for so long that he can't recall any of it when he attempts to remember. It's like he's living somebody else's life while he sleeps, and being a monster when he’s awake.

The truth of the matter is, he can't go back to Ashlee now, can't look her in the eyes while Joe's in the same room just staring at him, his eyes the only lively part of his body anymore. Can't walk, can't talk, can hardly even swallow down his food.

And it's his fault.

"Hey, brother! What's the rush?" Chuckles yells after him as he stumbles away from the dead campfire. He breathes hard in order not to vomit, swallowing down the bile that threatens to rise up his gullet. He gets on the road and staggers along it until the hobos are just a small dot behind him.

Spotting a wilted tree on the roadside, he walks behind it, yanks his zipper down and takes a long, satisfying piss, watching as his urine creates a miniature pond next to a large, protruding root.

A truck drives past him with people sitting at the back, yelling and whistling at Pete. The little boy living inside him wants to wiggle his dick at the hecklers, but they might recognize him and then he really would be up the creek.

Around noon he finds himself standing in the middle of a sturdy bridge, leaning on the railing and staring into the river that runs underneath it.

Thinking that he saw something floating on the water, Pete lifts himself up on the railing and peeks down, trying to distinguish shapes from the dark shadows of the bridge. His sweaty hand slips on the wooden railing and he almost loses his balance, his head swimming. But then he sees it again, a dark shape moving just on the edge of the biggest shadow. He reaches farther until the shape starts to shift and becomes clearer, gaining depth and color as it transforms into a brooding, dirty-kneed little boy.

The little boy looks up at Pete with wild, brown eyes, and what he sees startles him so much that he falls over the railing into the cold river.

He splutters in the water, the skin of his palms broken, everything in his body aching. He tries to push up onto his knees, but all he can manage is a slow, shaky roll over onto his back, the water's running so low that it barely reaches his ears.

"Whoa," he says, the sky spinning fast above him.

He sticks his palms into his eye sockets and presses down, trying to stop the spinning.

Someone's poking him in the chest, and when he detaches his hands from his eyes the boy -- he recognizes him now, there's no denying it -- is looming over him, staring.

"Hi, Pete," Pete breathes. It's like looking into an odd mirror.

Young Pete sticks his finger up his nose as a reply. When Pete tries to sit up again, the boy turns around and runs away, shoes sloshing in the water.

"Hey, kid! Hey, wait up," Pete groans, not ready to give up this vision just yet. He grimaces at the sting in his hands as he rolls onto his side and gets his feet under himself, finally managing to clamber up from the water.

He finds the kid sitting on a tree stump at the riverbank, whittling chips and flakes from a random stick with his pocketknife.

"Um. Pete?" Pete asks. _Where the hell did you come from?_ The kid drops the stick and snaps his head up, eyes skittering over Pete, studying him suspiciously.

"Yeah?"

"You don't -- do you know who I am?" Talking to a younger version of himself, Pete feels like the world's biggest narcissist.

The kid looks down at his pocketknife and starts playing with it again, and Pete can't help but wonder, with morbid fascination, if the kid hurts himself with the knife, will he feel the sting of it, too?

"Are you lost?"

The boy gives a shrug of his shoulders, still focusing on the knife. Pete knows this scene, knows what happened and what came next.

"There was an accident, right?" The boy looks up, suddenly very interested in the conversation. "You were sitting out on the back of the truck, enjoying the wind in your hair when the truck swerved. And you fell off."

Young Pete gives a brief nod. "I didn't do nothing."

"No," Pete agrees. _They did_. They should have checked on him, should have come looking when they realized he was missing. "You were a good boy."

Pete watches as the boy turns the knife over in his tiny hands and presses his thumb against it, testing the sharpness of the blade. The knife's the only concrete proof of his old life, the life before Ashlee and Joe. It's still in the top drawer of his night table. As a kid he kept it hidden away from Joe because he didn't want Joe to take it away from him, then he began his tuition and stopped thinking about the carnival altogether; the knife escaped his memory along with everything else.

He remembers now though, in bits and pieces.

"Hey, careful with that," he says, but too late. Little Pete’s already pricked his thumbpad open with the tip of the knife. The next thing he knows he's back on the bridge, feet and hands aching as he tries to stay balanced on the railing, crotch pressing painfully into the top rail.

"Steady now," a nervous voice startles him. "Don't make any sudden movements."

Pete looks around. There's a car parked by the bridge and a middle-aged man in a derby and black suit standing a couple of feet from Pete, holding his hands up in front of himself in a placating manner, like he's trying to calm a rabid dog.

"What the --"

"Look, man, just don't fucking jump, alright?" Derby says, growing more nervous by the second. "My wife's gone to town to get help."

"Help?" Pete asks with a distant voice, his head swimming.

"Yeah, man, just hang on."

Help turns out to be a police car and an ambulance. He watches as two men in white pants and jackets hurry out of one car, take a long look at him and then glance at each other. They give each other a nod and then jog along the bridge, grab Pete around the arms and hoist him down from the railing, then start dragging him back towards the vehicles. Derby is now holding his wife under his arm as she exaggerates the incident to the officials, squeezing her shoulder and nodding along to her story.

"Let me go," Pete says, trying to struggle away from the men's grip. Their hold of him just tightens. "I wasn't going to fucking jump, you morons. I'm a fucking minister, for God's sake."

The men exchange glances and throw him into the back of the ambulance. "Do all the ministers in your parish have such foul mouths?" one of them says, taking the seat next to him, still holding his arm in a tight grip. He grabs the medicine case under the seat and starts rummaging around it with his free hand.

"Look, if you take me back to town I can even prove it."

"You'll be with people just like you soon enough," White coat says as he injects something into Pete's neck to stop him from struggling. The world goes fuzzy around the edges in a matter of seconds, his head too heavy for his neck to support, then his eyes start to droop. When he wakes up, he's lying in a heap in the corner of a white, padded room, wearing even whiter easy pants and a thin, long sleeved shirt.

"Fuck," Pete groans, his limbs too heavy and uncoordinated to function properly. He tries to sit up but he can't even lift his arm. "Fucking fuck fuck fuck," he mumbles as drool dribbles down the side of his mouth on the padded floor, his tongue too thick to help him swallow it all down. He presses his face up against the floor and scrubs his scruffy cheek against it, sweating like a pig, breathing hard.

 

\--

 

There's a man walking down the steep slope with determination.

Brian, who’s driving in the front, slows down his truck and pokes his head out of the window, leaning his jaw on his forearm. Frank glances at Dan who had wanted to ride with him in the back of the truck and gets a big, hefty shrug in response. The campfire celebration last night ended in an argument when Brian and Bert joined the crew and let everyone in on their decision. They’d be driving into Babylon first thing in the morning since it was a faster, more direct route, Brian had explained. There would be more towns to entertain once they got past the ghost town. The other route could only offer more dust and cactuses. Frank had felt a spurge of excitement then, a humming inside his chest that told him things were finally moving forwards again, and the long drive into Babylon still hasn't managed to dull his excitement.

"Where are you headed, my friend?" Brian quips as the stranger stops by his truck. The truck goes _put put put put put_ as it idles.

"Away," the man replies, letting the bindle he'd been carrying on his back fall to the ground on top of his toes. He swipes the sweat from his face on the back of his sleeve and heaves a sigh. "Far away."

"Is this the road to Babylon?"

"Yessir, it's just behind that hill. We've been waiting for you a long time," the man says, giving Brian a big, tired smile. His teeth gleam yellow in the sunlight.

"So you live there? But you're going away?"

"You should stay for tonight's show, man," Dan suggests. Even here smiling comes easy to him, like he has no care in the world.

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't. I really must be going, but the town's full of people who'd love to see your show."

"What's the rush? It's just one more day," Brian says. "We can give you a ride back into town."

"No!" The man shouts, something flashing in his eyes that Frank recognizes as fear. He quickly composes himself and smiles again, slinking back to normal. "It's just, if I don't go now I'm 'fraid I'll never get to leave. There'll always be something that’ll keep me from leaving, you know?"

Dan nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and slumps back next to Frank, crossing his arms under his head and a leg over the other, starting to hum to himself.

"Of course," Brian appeases him, and Frank watches as his head disappears back inside the truck. "Good luck."

"Same to you," the man says, hoists the bindle back over his shoulder and waves them goodbye before continuing his journey away from the town.

After driving through the town they set camp just outside of it, on the root of the hill that hides the town from view. From the trucks the town had seemed empty, no people outside the houses and no one in the windows either, watching the caravan. No sounds were heard, and even the wind had slacked off. The carnies had dubbed Babylon as a spook town a long time ago, Gerard told him by the fire last night, and Frank thinks it fits the description down pat.

Brian doesn't seem too worried about people not showing up for the show tonight, in fact, he seems to be counting on the carnivals having a big crowd.

"You shouldn't worry either," he says, thumping Frank on the back, not nervous but not smiling either, looking pretty grim. "They always show up."

"But how do they even know we're here? No one saw us in town."

Brian cracks a short, tight smile. "Oh, they saw us alright, even if we didn't see them, there's no doubt about it."

Frank makes a face, digging the toe of his shoe in the ground.

"Iero," Bob shouts, waving a shovel around. "When you're done gossiping with Schechter I want you to get digging. The guys are missing their crapper." He has a shit-eating grin as he throws the shovel to Frank's feet. Bob's been on Frank's case ever since last night, ordering him around, giving him the shittiest jobs imaginable. If it had been up to Bob, they'd still be back at the river, watching Frank single-handedly building them a bridge to cross over.

"Have fun," Brian chuckles, shaking his head. He leaves Frank standing and disappears into the jungle of trailers, probably going to find himself a group of people to order around.

Wiping his hands on the back of his dungarees, Frank nudges the shovel with his shoe, then slides his foot under the handle and uses his leg to lift it up from the ground. He grabs the shovel and swings it over his shoulder, cringing at the task awaiting him. At least he already knows how it's done, and he’s sure he'd do his mama proud.

When he's finished putting up the tarp there's already a crowd lurking on the other side. Frank gives them the all clear sign and rolls his eyes when they push at each other, trying to be the first one in. He's tempted to say he already christened the place, but doesn't want to ruin anyone's surprise.

It's still early when the guys finish setting up the tents, popcorn and lottery stands, posters and rides. The two carnivals work fascinatingly well together, like they've done this a thousand times before. They both patch up each other's lacks so well that Frank has to ask Gerard if the two carnivals used to belong together.

"Ha, that's a good guess, but nah, not really. There was a time when we toured a lot together, though, in some parts of the continent, so I guess that explains it?"

"Yeah, must be. Damn, I was so sure about it, too."

"We go back a long way for sure."

"What happened?" Frank pries. "I mean meeting up with them was just a coincidence this time around, right? No one planned it."

"What made us go our separate ways?" Gerard asks with a thoughtful look. They're sitting outside the brothers' trailer, sharing another one of Gerard's smokes. Frank thinks he needs to stack up on cigarettes, he can't just keep stealing Gee's smokes forever. He has no more excuses either. The wad of bills from the revival gig is still burning hot in his back pocket.

He nods, giving Gerard back his smoke. Their fingers brush, and Frank has to squeeze his hand into a ball to stop his skin from tingling so.

"I guess we just grew apart, started wanting different things. Brian's always been more serious-minded, more businesslike about his carnival. Bert on the other hand -- well, Bert thinks it as more like a lifestyle, something he lives and breathes. He owns a carnival because that's the only thing he knows, and if it was taken away from him, I don't think he could function anymore. He'd be like a captain without a ship. He wouldn't know what to do."

"I think I like Bert's way better," Frank says, feeling intensely affectionate towards that stinky, scruffy, greasy little man.

"Ah, but see, his way is also more destructive. Some people it fits so well, but too much of Bert and I grow weary. Our energies just clash."

"I thought you liked him, you seemed really friendly the other day."

Gerard gives a short laugh, smoke bursting from his mouth and hitting his knees. "In a way I'll always love him, even if I could never spend my life with him.”

“Wait. What? Were you a couple?” Frank blinks, completely taken aback and curious to hear Gee’s answer, but Gerard just smiles mysteriously at him.

In the late afternoon Brian drags everyone into town. The sun is just starting to hang low in the sky, always just in Frank's eyes, the weather's been uncomfortably sunny and hot for as long as he can remember, and the heat just gets worse the more south they go.

Brian gathers everyone around him and suggests that they find the town saloon and relax for a while. It’s not something Frank could have expected from him, but he realizes that Brian’s probably just trying to calm everyone’s nerves before the show. Everyone Frank's talked to has been on edge today.

Like the rest of the town, the saloon is completely empty. Even the bartender is missing, and a thick layer of dust blankets the counter and the tabletops. There's a piano in the corner, on top of it a half-empty tip jar. The chandelier hanging crookedly from the ceiling is lit, though, and it rumples Frank's arms into gooseflesh. He scowls up at the chandelier, thinking about what Brian said about the townsfolk. He hasn't seen anyone since meeting the lone man by the hill, but he's still got this unsettling feeling of eyes on his back, watching and waiting.

Sara skids to the piano, gently sliding her fingers along the frame and the notes. She hooks her ankle around the stool and pulls it back towards her, dusts it off and sits down with graceful moves. She plays a few notes and smiles, satisfied that the piano is in tune, and then begins to play for real.

"Live music!" Bert hollers, takes a few out-of-rhythm steps and grabs Brian, twirling him around once before Brian regains his balance and pushes Bert away.

"Freak," Brian says, shaking his head, but he looks like he's trying to hold back a grin. He gets behind the bar and starts pouring drinks, then fishes a long, red straw from a jar on the counter and plops it into Mikey's tall glass. He can't reach it from his chair but Brian lifts the glass from the counter and helps Mikey drink from it. With a thankful smile to Brian, Gerard grabs a two cents plain for himself and saunters towards the piano, leaning up against it and gulping down his water.

In the empty space between the counter and the tables, Lindsey and Jimmy start a hilarious, uncoordinated dance. Jepha grabs a bottle of whiskey from Brian and three glasses, motioning for Dan and Bob to follow him to the table in the corner. They sit down, clink their glasses together and start drinking. Bob's nursing his drink well while he watches Gerard with soft, serene eyes. Gerard is nodding along to the music, eyeing the dancing couple. He snickers into his glass when Lindsey swats Jimmy over the head for stepping on her foot.

And Christ, Frank would be lying to himself if he pretended he didn't want to ask Gerard to dance. Even when he hasn't ever danced before and probably owns two left feet anyway, so he'd just be stepping on Gerard's toes all the time, the feeling's still there. He toys with the thought of asking Gerard, and what everyone would think, likes the idea even more when he imagines Bob's reaction, and then feels like a shithead almost immediately afterward. Bob’s this good-hearted, strong, straightforward guy, total big brother material, so even though Bob seems to have a bone to pick with Frank, Frank can’t help but look up to him.

“Bryar takes his good time warming up to new people,” Brian once said, almost apologetically, but then added with a laugh that, “when he finally befriends you, just you wait, you'll never get rid of him then.”

Maybe all that guy needs is to get laid, Frank thinks, but then again, who doesn't? Most nights he just feels too tired and sore to even jerk off, and when he does he tries to make a quick work of it, there's just no fucking privacy anywhere. It doesn't help that most nights his dreams leave him shaking and sweating on the ground, too frightened to do anything but curl up into a tight ball and wait for the sun to creep over the horizon.

Bert's wolf-whistle shakes Frank from his thoughts. Lindsey's doing her back-bend on top of a round table, her dress sweeping up along her thighs.

Frank hoists himself up on the table closest to the piano and feels a stupid smile breaching his bad mood when Gerard glances at him on the sly and lifts his drink to his lips, grinning into the glass.

The afternoon has shifted into an early evening almost unnoticed, with everyone drinking and dancing and goofing off. It's only when a gust of wind rattles the window behind Frank's back that he glances outside, the dimness taking him by surprise.

"Alright, people," Brian says, banging his shot glass on the counter to get everyone’s attention. "Empty your glasses, we should start heading back."

"One last dance?" Lindsey suggests. Hopping off the table, she sashays behind the bar and grabs Brian's hand, tugging at it and smiling attractively. "Come on," she says with a pronounced pout, "you didn't get to dance yet."

Brian looks like he's going through some internal struggle, the businessman against the real Brian just looming under the surface. She kisses her fingertip and presses the kiss on Brian's scruffy cheek, marking his skin with a small stain of her red lipstick. He smudges the spot with the heel of his palm, glaring at her, but gives in anyway, letting himself get pulled to the cleared space on the floor.

"Sara, would you be so kind?" Brian smiles at her and she nods, says, "No problem, I missed playing the piano. It's been far too long," starting to play something soft and slow.

Brian's surprisingly graceful, Frank thinks in awe, watching them move together, his cheek pressed against Lindsey’s jaw. It isn't awkward even though she's a little taller than him; he knows how to lead her anyway. Jimmy's grin splits his face in half. He pops peanuts into his mouth and watches them swaying to the music.

Soon the floor's full of dancing couples. Gabe's there with Vicky, his finger twirled around her glued-on beard, Bert's trying to coax Quinn into dancing with him, not fazed the slightest by all the swats he's getting at his pot-belly and hips as Quinn tries to shake him off. Taking a glance at Bob -- he's still watching Gerard, eyes at half-mast probably more from the whiskey than exhaustion, arm draped over the back of the chair, thumb rubbing at the varnished wood -- Frank wonders if he'll just wallow in his self-pity for all eternity.

But then it looks like Bob's going to make his move. He stands up on shaky legs and wobbles across the saloon, through the sea of undulating couples, towards the corner where Gerard's still leaning against the side of the piano.

This is what watching a car crash in slow motion must feel like, Frank thinks, not being able to tear his eyes away.

But then Gerard glances up, eyes widening as he notices Bob. He makes a small noise at the back of his throat and quickly pushes away from the piano, rushing to Frank and blurting out in a single breath, "Ya wanna dance?"

Right on cue Tegan hops off the counter she's been lounging on all evening and stops Bob's journey by wrapping her arms around his neck, making him sway with her. For a second Bob looks utterly bewildered. He frowns at Tegan, then at Frank and Gerard, but at the same time he's already arranged his hands on Tegan, on the small of her back and between her shoulder blades, sagging into her. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and then they sway together to the music.

"Well?" Gerard prompts quietly, nudging at Frank's thigh with his knuckles. He's worrying his lip as he ducks his head, but there's no hair hanging in front of his face to hide behind anymore. "It's your last chance to dance tonight, the song's almost over."

Frank wants to say yes, wants to hop off the table and grab Gerard around the waist and spin them around and around until his head swirls, but. He takes another glance at Bob, then studies the calluses on his hands, feeling the sting of them and the newest sunburn on the back of his neck. "I can't," he concludes, his nails digging into his palms.

"Oh," Gerard whispers, pressing his head down. His ears are disturbingly red in contrast to the white of his new hair. "Okay."

Grabbing Gee's hand as he turns to leave, Frank pulls him back, squeezing his fingers. "I can't. Not until you talk to him and give him some fucking closure," he nods in Bob's direction. This is so out of his comfort zone, he just wants to get back to the carnival and disappear into the crowd.

Gerard sighs and nods, looking ashamed of himself. His eyes are shining though when he gives Frank a small, crooked smile, shining like clear white glass.

On the walk back Frank lingers behind everyone, watching their strange half-walk, half-dance as they wobble and twirl down the road. Gerard's with Bob who's depending on Gerard’s shoulder to keep from stumbling down.

Frank looks on as Gerard leads Bob into his trailer, says something to Jepha who'd been pushing Mikey in his chair before closing the door behind them. Jepha pushes Mikey back to his own trailer and parks him outside where Dan's already setting up the tattoo stand.

What's going on inside Gerard's trailer is too nerve-wracking to think about. Frank tries to busy himself with helping people out, but there's really nothing to do anymore, everyone's already finished with their arrangements and now just sit around waiting for an audience.

"I'm going for a walk," Frank says to Brian. Brian's been pacing aimlessly ever since they got back, checking his watch every now and then, and looking at him is making Frank even more nervous.

"What? When we're just about to open?"

"There's nothing for me to do," Frank explains. Even Jimmy had driven him away when he'd suggested doing some crowd patrol, too busy to give Frank more than a glance and a shove out of the tentway.

"Did you ask around for stuff to do?"

"Yeah, it's like everyone's on edge, they just want to get through the night as fast as they can."

"They want the night to be over as soon as possible," Brian agrees, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They weren't too happy when I made them stop here. Okay, just. Don't go wandering off too far away, and keep both your eyes open."

"Yes, mom," Frank says, smirking as Brian gives him a shove to the direction of the hills.

Exiting the carnival, the townies are finally starting to surge inside, Brian and Bert greeting them under the worn CARNIVÀLE sign with big, faked smiles. Frank gives them a wave, trying not to feel uneasy at the hollow, dull faces of the townies; none of them are smiling. It's like they're dead inside.

The terrain is rough and dry here, hard to walk without stumbling on the smal, loose rocks.

Getting closer to the hill he finds a cave opening and crawls inside, transfixed by a flickering light in the distance. It's cramped and clammy here, dirt forcing its way into the calluses on his palms and sweat gliding down his neck, disappearing into his shirt.

He comes closer to the light and recognizes it as the kind miners wear on their helmets. He stops and squints at the figure moving towards him, heart thumping so loudly in his ears that it feels like the sound bounces off the walls.

The figure comes to a halt just a few feet from Frank, his black cassock trailing behind him.

"What the fuck?"

In his haste to get as far away from the minister as possible, Frank bumps his head on the ceiling and for a while sees nothing but stars.

The minister opens his mouth, jaw going slack, and a thousand skittering little spiders start surging out, raining down on the cave floor and advancing towards Frank. Frank trashes around and swats at them, scared out of his wits.

Then he starts to scream.

He doesn't know how long he's been lying there, curled up on himself, shaking like a frightened dog, but then he realizes, as fast as his terror came, that he's alone again. The minister is gone along with the spiders. Recognizing the whimpers echoing off the walls as his own, he snaps his mouth shut, glad that no one was around to witness his latest freak out.

He rummages in his pocket and finds a matchbox that he thinks must belong to Gerard. Shaking a match out he scrapes it against the cave wall, lighting it up. He holds the lit match up in front of him, trying to see where he came from. But instead he notices writing on the nearest wall, the letters partly hidden under a thick white spider web and partly faded out. The match dies out and he lights another one after talking himself into brushing away all the spider webs from the wall.

There, on the wall, written in bold, white letters reads AVATAR.

Back in the carnival Frank dunks his head into a water bucket, reveling in the sounds of the people and music fading out. It feels like his head is lined with cotton, and yet there's a drilling pain there, just above his eyebrows.

Going to find Brian's truck, he thinks about the cave and what happened there. All of it feels like a sign, like he's on the right track. He can't wait to talk to Ozzy now, and maybe even ask him about the writing on the wall.

Sara's just coming out of her trailer, wearing a white linen dress, her hair up in a loose ponytail. She gives Frank a warm smile and waves at him. Frank watches as a couple of guys stop her, wanting to shake her hand, their faces anything but hollow now. He's reminded of Gerard's words on a cool night a lifetime ago. Maybe the townies just needed someone to shake them awake, maybe this town isn't such a bad place after all.

He hops up on the back of the truck, using the tailpipe for leverage. The stars are out again but thin clouds blanket them here and there; they're still amazingly bright behind all the white.

After a while, people start to leave. The music goes out and only the stale smell of popcorn grease lingers in the air. Bob's been taking care of the Ferris wheel like usual, but when Frank glances at his left he notices him and Tegan kissing outside of her trailer, surprisingly intimate. Her arms are around his neck and she's standing on her toes, Bob gripping her waist and holding her close.

She pulls back, a tender smile playing on her lips as she takes his hand and brings it to her cheek, turning her head to press a kiss to his palm. He runs that palm down the column of her neck and spans her chest, just above her breasts.

Frank feels like he shouldn't be seeing this, and he must be blushing, his face is burning hot. He averts his eyes, looking down to his lap. After a while he hears the trailer door opening, and when he glances over, Tegan's just disappearing inside, dragging Bob along by his hand, the door closing behind them with a gentle click.

"Huh," Frank says to himself as the lights in the trailer go out.

 

\--

 

Pete thinks he'd start counting the days by scraping lines on the wall if he had any grasp at the progress of time here. He knows he can’t have been in the hospital for very long, even though, huddled in the corner of his tiny, padded room, it feels like forever since he arrived. It must be morning, since the sun is shining through the window just below the ceiling, white and so bright his eyes water. He'd brush the not-tears away if he wasn't still wrapped in the goddamn straightjacket. His 'doctor' had explained earlier how he would get out of it as soon as he stopped being hysterical, looking down his nose at him like he was raging mad.

Hysterical.

 _It's bullshit_ , Pete thinks, lying on his back with his legs bent, knees sticking up. _With the amount of pills and injections pumped into my body, I'd be glad if I could sit up without my head spinning_.

The same nurse that made him swallow the last dose of pills, checking under his tongue and all the creases of his mouth, walks in, her white stockings and dress a little fuzzy in his vision.

"And how are we doing today, Mister?" She sounds perky and patronizing at the same time. But something about her just makes him think of Ashlee. He hopes she's looking for him.

"I was doing okay until I got shanghai’d off the street and brought here. _Against my will_ ," he tells her, voice raspy and pitiful. "I don't have time for this, I have places to be. My church needs me."

"Oh, hush," she says, scolding him. "Are you still going on about that minister nonsense? Doctor Hurley will have a field day with you."

"Well at least someone will."

She takes a small bottle from her pocket. The pills inside rattle like maracas. "Be a good boy now and open up," she says, kneeling down. She grasps his jaw and forces his mouth open, stuffs two pills inside and waits for him to swallow them down. "There. That'll tide you over till the doctor comes." She smiles sweetly, letting go of his jaw.

After the nurse has exited the room, it doesn't take long for the doctor to wander in. He's reading the patient chart, long, curly hair hanging in front of his face, the hem of his white jacket flitting as he walks.

"Mister X," he reads from the chart, glancing at Pete over his glasses. "My name is Doctor Hurley, I'm here to make an evaluation of your condition."

Pete snorts and rolls onto his side. "That's what you're calling me? Mister X? Can't say I completely hate it."

"You feel like telling me your real name?"

"I already did. Well, not to you, I guess. But in the back of the car my name had no significance. I don't fucking belong here."

"You were acting hysterical," Hurley reads from the chart. "I talked to the nice couple that found you on the bridge, they seemed convinced that you were going to end your life in the river."

"So what, that gives you people the right to kidnap me? Put me in fucking psychiatric care?" Maybe if his words didn't come out all jumbled and slurred Hurley would actually listen to him. His tongue feels so thick and overgrown that he can't stop drooling, either. It's been days since he last showered and shaved the scruff off his cheeks. His own stench -- alcohol mixed with old sweat -- wafts to his nose and makes him want to gag.

"You are here for you own benefit. We want to help you. Think of the time you will spend here as revitalizing, you'll walk out a changed man."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," Pete says grimly. But will the change be for better or for worse?

Hurley kneels down next to Pete, sliding the chart under his arm and crossing his fingers on top of his knees.

"It says in your chart that you're a Methodist minister." It sounds like a statement rather than a question, which gives Pete a sick sense of hope.

" _Yes_. Yes, I am. A lot of people are counting on me. They will be so worried when I don't turn up at the service," Pete lisps, swallowing around his thick tongue.

Hurley nods fervently, his eyes shining with excitement.

"It's been a while since we last had a clergyman in the house. I think -- if you want to, we could arrange a little service of our own for all the people here. Many of our patients would really like that."

Pete grits his teeth, clenching his hands into fists inside his straitjacket. His hope is wearing thin. "I think I'll pass."

Hurley seems utterly disappointed, but he gives Pete a brief nod, standing up.

"I'll arrange someone to get you out of that jacket, you're free to walk around the hospital, the guards by the doors are for your safety."

"You don't think I'll attack someone?" Pete asks, struggling to keep his eyes focused on Hurley's face.

"Nah, I think you're pretty harmless. Besides, with the amount of pills in your system right now, I'd be surprised if you managed to stand up without support," he adds before exiting through the open doorway.

 

\--

 

Frank wakes up with the sun drilling beams in his eyes.

He gets up, takes a leak and splashes water on his face and the back of his neck, enjoying the rare moment of total silence and solitude. Even the wind has died down.

All of a sudden a blood-chilling scream pierces the silence, and then Tegan comes running through the jungle of tents, her linen dress flapping against her legs. Frank follows her with bleary eyes, blinking to clear his vision when he notices Bob’s sturdy shape in the distance. He's walking towards Tegan with a heavy stride, carrying something limp and big in his arms.

"What the hell?" Frank breathes out as his vision starts to clear. He runs after Tegan, only stopping when he’s reached the trio. Tegan's crying and shaking, draped over Sara's boneless body. Bob's just looking grim and upset, struggling to hold both girls up. "Shit."

"Frank," Bob says, voice strung tight but steady and sure. "Would you go and get Schechter here? You should find him in Ray's trailer."

"Okay," Frank says, wondering why his own voice sounds so distant in his ears. "Uh, what should I tell him?" _What the fuck am I gonna say? Hey, Brian, guess who's fucking dead?_

"I don't fucking care what you say," Bob grits out, shifting Sara's body in his arms. "Just fucking get him here."

"Right. Fuck. Okay," Frank says, turning away on shaky legs.

The next hour passes in a blur. Lindsey’s taken to washing Sara's dirty body, running a wet towel along her face before washing her hands and feet with it, occasionally sniffling and wiping her own eyes on the back of her hand.

Bob had placed her body on a long table inside the main tent, being so careful to not let her head bang against the hard surface. Tegan had held her sister's hand against her cheek, and sobbed into Bob's shirt when he tucked her under his arm.

"Who did this?" Brian keeps repeating, his face wet, distraught. "Who the hell did this?"

"Who the fuck do you think did this?" Jimmy growls, and Frank is sure Jimmy would strangle Brian on the spot if Jepha and Quinn weren’t there holding him back. "You brought us here, you fucking _knew_ what reputation the town has, and you still fucking brought us here."

Frank sits himself outside the tent and presses his face in his hands, his head reeling, his stomach convulsing.

It isn't Brian's fault, he thinks darkly. If anything, it's all Frank’s fault. If he hadn't kept pushing Brian and Ray into going this way, Sara would still be alive.

Her face is all he can think about, all he sees now when he clamps his eyes shut, and he has to focus on regulating his breathing or he'll throw up again.

On Sara's forehead someone's carved _harlot_ with a blunt knife, and for that alone Frank wants to hunt them down and strangle them with his bare hands.

"Oh God, Frank," Gerard's voice breaches his thoughts. Frank looks up just as Gerard sinks down next to him and pulls him into a tight hug, pressing his wet face into Frank's shoulder. "I can't even -- who could ever hurt her like that?"

"I saw her last night," Frank says, startled by the sudden memory. "I fucking saw her talking to some guys, but I didn't. I didn't know. I didn't _know_."

Gerard lifts his head and sniffs, shakes his head. "I saw her too, she seemed happy. I didn't notice anything suspicious. The girls have always taken care of themselves, fuck, Lindsey's more badass than Brian." He pulls back a little and looks almost ashamed when he says, "Frank, I have to ask… Could you -- could you still save her?"

Frank's stomach sinks and he shifts awkwardly, hating himself for what he has to say. "She's dead. I think -- no, I know that there's only one way that could bring her back."

Gerard's brows knit together but he nods his head, prodding Frank to go on with his explanation.

"Gee. Shit. It's always been life for a life. I'd have to take someone else's life to bring her back."

Gerard looks at him with wide eyes and swears under his breath.

They sit silently until Brian, Bob, Jimmy, Bert, and a handful of guys and some girls: Maja, Lindsey and Tegan march out of the tent, Brian and Bob in the lead, Brian slipping a small handgun in the waist of his jeans under his shirt as he walks.

"What's going on?" Gerard voices Frank's thoughts, getting up from the ground.

"We're going to pay the townies a visit," Bob answers him, his jaw set and face tight.

"Okay, then we're coming with you," Frank says, pushing himself up to his feet. He thinks, maybe if they catch the right man, the one who fucking violated Sara like it was nothing, like it's okay to fucking do that to a person, maybe then she still has a chance.

But the town is empty. They even break into a couple of houses, check every crook and crevice, but find no single soul. The bar is also empty, the only sign of life the empty glasses and bottles that they left behind last night.

Tegan's leaning into Bob's side when they trudge back, his arm around her back, hand cupping her upper arm. Brian's walking with a heavy step, all determination and hot, stabbing anger drained from his body. The gun is outlined against his shirt on the small of his back, and it rubs against his skin as he walks.

Mikey's sitting outside by Ray’s trailer when they get back, Ray on the steps with his guitar, and Gerard goes to hug his brother, squeezing him tightly as Mikey's head rolls onto his shoulder.

"We need to bury her," Bert says to Brian, quiet enough that Frank has to strain his ears to hear. "It's a hot day. Hell, Brian, she'll start to --"

"I know," Brian snaps before Bert can finish that thought. "Show some respect for fuck's sake."

Bert frowns at his dusty shoes but keeps his mouth shut.

"I'll take care of it," Bob says with a grave voice, giving Brian's shoulder a squeeze.

"Thank you," Brian says gratefully, cupping the back of Bob's neck and pressing their foreheads together for a short moment.

Then Bob pushes back and picks up a shovel from the back of a truck, hoists it up on his shoulder and starts walking in the direction of the hills where Frank found his cave. The grass grows green there, so unlike all its surroundings.

The nausea has settled firm in Frank's stomach and sweat is gliding down his back, his temples and armpits damp from it. He can't just stand here feeling useless, he wants to help.

"Where do you think you're going?" Brian says, blocking Frank's path. "No one goes anywhere without clearing it with me first."

Frank goes around Brian and gets another shovel from the back of Brian's truck. "I'm going to help him," Frank replies, ignoring Brian's surprised look.

The hill Bob's chosen turns out to be steeper than what it looked like from below. Frank's out of breath, his throat burning when he’s finally managed to clamber all the way up. Bob's already knees deep in the pit, his yellow hair matted on his forehead, the back of his shirt damp between his shoulder blades.

Frank hops down in the pit, startling Bob. "Iero?" he grunts, swiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Frank takes notice of the way he's rubbing his wrist and the tremble in his hand.

"You shouldn't have to do this alone," Frank shrugs, trying to sound unaffected, casual.

Bob's just staring at him, furrows on his forehead, his eyes sharp and clear. Then he gives Frank a curt nod and jabs his shovel in the dirt, resuming the digging.

They work in silence for a while, Frank pretending he hasn't noticed the pain Bob seems to be in, not saying anything about the occasional whimper and the clatter of his shovel.

"Fuck," Bob exclaims in a sudden fit of anger, throwing the shovel away. "Goddamn fucking shit."

"It's your wrist, right?" Frank asks, steeling himself for whatever shit Bob's gonna throw at him for asking him something so personal.

For a moment Bob looks like he's gonna punch him in the face, tense like a string. But then he deflates, plonking down on the edge of the pit. He starts rubbing his wrist again, turning his fist in circles and stretching his hand.

"I used to be a baseball player, did you know? Before I joined Brian's crew." Bob's got a small, wistful smile growing on his face. He tries to hide it though by ducking his head.

"Yeah? Like, what's his name, Joe DiMaggio?"

Bob jerks his head up, glaring at Frank. "Fuck DiMaggio, he's no match for me."

It tugs a laugh out of Frank, and then Bob laughs too, short and gruffy.

"What happened?" Frank asks, jabbing the ground with his shovel. "I mean, what made you stop?"

"What do you think fucking happened?" Bob says, showing him his wrist.

"I mean, what's wrong with it?"

Bob hesitates, then grabs the support strap from his pocket and starts tying it around the wrist. "The bone got shattered from my team-mate's bat," Bob says without emotion, and Frank winces, his own wrist aching with sympathy. "We were practicing out in the field one day and I guess he just wasn't really looking when he swung that bat. That was the end of my career."

"Shit."

"It was a pretty dark time in my life. For months I practically lived in the town bar, trying to drown myself in cheap whiskey. Then the carnival came into town one day, and Brian offered me a job. He always used to say that he couldn't stand to see a grown man wasting his life in a dirty dollar bar. I owe my fucking life to him."

If anything, Frank feels even more awkward around Bob now that he knows about his past. Although it explains some things, puts them in a new perspective for Frank.

"Jeez, Bob. I'm --"

"Don't fucking say it," Bob grits out, standing up. He hoists himself up out of the pit and goes to grab his shovel, leaning it against his shoulder. "Look, let's just pretend this conversation never happened and get back to work."

Frank shrugs, pushing the head of his shovel in the ground with the sole of his shoe. "Fine by me," he says, chucking dirt over his shoulder without really looking where it’s going, kind of annoyed now.

After the awkward conversation it doesn't take long for them to finish the job, both working in silence towards a common goal. People are starting to gather on the hill, dressed up in their best clothing.

Ray's brought his guitar with him, and he's sitting on the lone rock holding it in his lap, testing out some chords.

"Hey, if you want to grab a quick shower before the funeral starts, now's your chance," Bob says, wiping sweat from his eyes.

Frank hoists himself up from the grave and dusts his hands on the back of his dungarees. He snorts, giving Bob an incredulous look. "What's with the sudden goodwill?"

"Fine," Bob shrugs, dropping the shovel to his feet. "I'll take that shower," he adds, stretching his joints as he turns to walk away.

Frank watches him give Gerard and Mikey a small nod as they approach him, and for the first time since last night Frank wishes he knew what Gerard and Bob really talked about after getting back from the bar.

"Frank!" Gerard says, parking Mikey's chair close to the grave. His face looks a little puffy, his lips chewed red and tender.

"Gee," Frank says as Gerard scoops him up in a tight hug, tucking his jaw in the crook of his neck. "Come on, man, I fucking stink."

"You smell like a man who's been sweating his brow all day doing something honorable for his friends," Gerard says, sounding almost reverent, his voice tender as he presses his nose into Frank's neck and takes a sniff. "Besides, that armpit smell is totally homey," he adds, tongue-in-cheek.

"Ha," Frank says dryly, gently pushing Gerard away.

They don't have to wait long for the service to start. Soon enough, Brian, Bob, Quinn and Jeph walk up the hill, carrying Sara on a bier between them, following the mourners: Tegan leaning on Lindsey's side, both in black dresses and hats, Tegan holding an off-white handkerchief in her fist.

Jimmy helps them lower Sara in her grave. She's been dressed up in a simple, black corduroy dress, and there's a small golden cross around her neck. Frank takes notice of the lace scarf wrapped around he hair, covering the cuts on her forehead. He feels a white-hot flash of anger when he thinks about all the horrible things Sara might have gone through; wants to make someone pay.

They say their goodbyes, each in turn placing something precious and small in the grave on Sara's chest while Ray plucks strings on his guitar, the tune heavy with mood. Gerard kneels down and unwraps the scarf around his neck, lets it flutter on top of Sara's hands crossed over her belly. "Godspeed," he whispers, reaching down to brush her cheek with his knuckles, gently, so, so gently.

Tegan takes out a rumpled photograph from her hem pocket and kneels down to place it on Sara's chest. She lets out a huge, painful sob and takes off, running down the hill. Bob looks like he wants to follow her, but Lindsey gets there first, squeezing Bob’s shoulder before going after her.

Frank closes his eyes and heaves a sigh against the pressure in his chest, suddenly missing his mama like crazy.

"Hey, who's that?" Jimmy says, squinting into the distance. Frank follows his gaze, and sure enough there's a figure walking down a hill with a bindle over his shoulder.

"Isn't that --" Frank starts, but Bob's already after him. He tackles the man on the ground and then starts dragging him down the hill by the back of his jacket, marching him towards the carnival.

"Come on," Brian says, motioning with his head. "Let's go see what this is all about."

Inside the main tent Bob has sat the man down on a rickety chair, holding him still by the shoulder.

"I thought you said you were leaving town," Brian says, stepping close.

The man seems regretful and downcast. "Once you're rooted here, you never get to leave," he says. "I should have learned that a long time ago."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means just what I said. Once the town gets a hold of you, it's the last place you'll ever see. You should go. Now. Before that happens to you."

"Don't fucking tell us what to do, you son of a bitch," Bob barks out, pulling the man's head back by the scruff of his neck.

"No one's going anywhere until we figure out what to do with you. We've got a dead girl six feet in the ground that was very much alive before we got here, and no one around to pay for it," Brian says.

"Well, not until now," Bob adds, pushing the man back when he attempts to stand up.

"Now, look. I haven't done nothing to no one."

"Maybe so but you seem to be the only person in this town that hasn't been swallowed up by the ground. And someone’s gotta pay. Who’s to say you weren’t with Sara last night?"

“Yeah!” Jimmy incites, his features full of hate. “I think I saw him!”

“W-what?” The man’s voice is starting to sound hysterical. “He’s lying! I didn’t touch her! I swear!” Then he changes tactics and says, accusingly, “Everyone knows what this town is like. I’m sorry, but she should have known better and kept away from the townies.”

  Tegan cries out in red-hot fury, and Bob punches the man in the face so hard he breaks his nose. “Shut up! Fucking shut your mouth!”

The man starts shaking, his shoulders vibrating under Bob’s hold. "What are you gonna do to me?" he whimpers, blood trickling down his nose.

"Fucking kill him!" Tegan yells from the back, her voice breaking. Frank glances at her and wonders if she’ll ever manage to get over this. He would like to help her, any way he can.

"That wouldn't be right." Gerard's voice is quiet but resolute.

"What the goddamn shit do you care whether it's right or wrong, Sara's fucking dead! Didn’t you fucking hear what he said about her?"

"So we're gonna sink to their level? Start killing innocent people?"

"Sara was innocent," Tegan cries, burying her face in her hands, furiously rubbing away her tears.

"I'm with the lady," Bert says, stepping out of the shadows. Frank doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bert this grave and sober before. "I say we give this fella a touch of old carnie justice."

Brian looks like he could drill holes with his eyes.

"What's carnie justice?" Frank asks, finding his voice cloggy and soft.

"Eye for an eye," Bob says slowly, "life for a life."

"I can't get behind that," Gerard says, shaking his head. "If he was guilty, then, yeah, I'd probably be on board, but I don’t think he is."

"But how can we know that for sure? Jimmy thinks he saw him last night," Bert says, adding fuel to the flame. "I say we lynch him and then get the fuck outta here."

"I haven't done anything. Fuck, I don't wanna fucking die for something I haven't done. I'm sorry for what happened to your friend but I've never even seen her in my life!"

"How about we play a game of Russian roulette," Quinn suggests, ignoring the man. "The carnie way. Let fate decide his destiny."

Brian considers it for a minute, then nods his head and walks to the cluster of junk in the corner where he retrieves a small, hand-painted box. He creeks the lid open and takes his handgun out, rotating it in his hands. He extracts the bullets from the cylinder save for one, and then goes to stand in front of their captive, keeping the gun hidden from his view.

"Pick a number from one to six," he says as Bob urges the man up, pulling him by the back of his jacket.

"Shit, no, what’re you doing?"

"I said pick a number," Brian snaps, "or I'll pick one for you."

"Five," the man says hastily, squeezing his eyes shut tight. Brian rolls the cylinder in its orbit and clicks it back in place. Bob walks out of the range of the gun, taking his place by Brian's side. Tegan's jaw is set, her body so tense that Frank can almost feel the nervous energy radiating off her in waves. She comes to stand on Bob's other side, grabbing his fingers and squeezing them so hard the skin around his knuckles goes white.

Frank watches as Brian takes aim, his heart hacking at his chest so hard that everyone must hear him.

"Time to say your prayers," Bob says as Brian starts shooting.

"I can't believe he's still standing," Jimmy says after five empty shots to the head, sounding equally awed and disappointed.

Frank releases a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding, his head reeling.

The man's knees buckle and he sinks to the ground, looking like he's gonna spew.

"This is wrong," Tegan says, pulling away from Bob. "He should be dead."

"No," Gerard says, helping the man up to his feet. "You made up the rules to your sick game and he survived it. He's free to go."

Brian sighs and presses his head down, brushing his hand over his face and sliding his thumb and pointer finger along his eyelids. "He's free to go," he says, and Frank can't help but think he sounds relieved over anything else.

"You need to go. Now," Gerard says, shoving hard at the man's back. "Get the fuck away."

Frank watches as the man stumbles out of the tent in half-run, keeping his face on the ground rather than the people all staring at him in various stages of disgust. He disappears through the tent opening into the bright daylight, the luckiest man on earth.

"Come on," Brian says without much feeling. "Let's pack up and get the hell out of here."

Around four in the afternoon they're ready to leave. Frank hops onto the back of Brian's truck, preparing himself for another day and night of driving. Each mile takes him closer to the rest home and Ozzy, but now he can't help but feel like he's been nothing but bad luck to the carnies, to his only friends.

As they're driving down the main road through the town, Frank notices movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks up at the town bar and in the window sees Sara with her palm pressed against the glass. She's in the clothes she wore the night before her death, and there're no cuts and bruises on her face. As she opens her mouth to speak, she gets pulled out of the window by two, thick arms, someone's palm clamped against her mouth.

"Shit." Frank hops out of the truck so fast he loses his footing, his stomach giving a painful lurch. He runs to the bar, ignoring Brian’s angry yells. He throws the door open, looking inside frantically, searching for Sara. But the bar is as empty as always, the dirty glasses and half-drunk bottles that they left behind still there, nothing's been cleared out.

"What the fuck was that?" Brian barks with his head out the window when Frank comes back.

Frank's chest feels tight where he rubs his fist against his sternum. "I thought I saw something," he says quietly, fear and sorrow weakening his voice.

Exhaustion hits Frank like a ton of bricks as soon as the truck coughs up into motion. He slumps down on a slap of plywood and rests his head on his folded arm, ignoring all the aches in his body. He blinks up at the sky until his eyes start to water, then heaves a sigh and closes his eyes. He jerks up almost immediately though when a loud bang splits his ears.

"Jesus fuck, what the hell?"

Frank props himself up against the wall and peers over the edge, bile rising up his throat. The man they weren't supposed to shoot is lying face down on the ground, still gripping his bindle in one hand. There's blood pulping out of the hole in his skull, seeping into the dirt.

Brian's looking at Frank in the side mirror, his dark eyes challenging, but Frank realizes he doesn't want to object anymore, not after what he saw in the bar window. He holds Brian's gaze for a moment, but then just slumps back on the plywood. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, his throat working to swallow down his sick while he makes feeble attempts to stop his head from spinning.

 

\--

 

Pete lies on the floor in his padded room for hours after he's been released from the straitjacket, gathering his thoughts, clearing his head as best as he can. He thinks about Joe on the hospital bed and Ashlee by his bedside, and the little boy on the tree trunk, playing with his pocketknife. A crow sits down on the window sill and peeks inside, tapping at the glass with its beak, cocking its head and considering Pete with its black, beady eyes before flying away. When it starts to get dark outside, Pete hoists himself up, stopping to marvel at the soft scrapes on his palms that he only could have gotten when he fell off the bridge.

But wasn't that all in his head? Hadn't he just imagined it?

"I must be losing my mind," he says to a longhaired old man who's looming by the wall just outside the padded room. The man hunches his shoulders and takes a few steps back, eyeing him nervously while rubbing at his wrists.

The room leads to a hallway, which in its turn leads to a huge lounge with chairs and large barred windows, patients, nurses and guards scattered around. Everything is white here: the walls, the furniture, even the people's clothes. The floor is white, too, and the ceiling. The radiators buzz and bang at short intervals. Everywhere smells like disinfectant and chalk.

"Where the hell am I?" he asks the room. A man with a long, rubbery face and gray, thinning hair flashes his teeth, says, "Hell, we're in Hell," letting out a sharp, harrowing laugh that irritates Pete's ears.

He walks to the window and looks outside. It's full moon tonight, the gleam of it lighting the ground, casting long shadows over trees and rocks, making the water in the river sparkle like the stars.

The river. It's within a stone's throw, running along the edge of the forest. He realizes, with a start, that he can't be that far away from home.

He grips the bars in front of the window and presses his forehead against them, relishing the coolness of the metal on his skin. He watches as his breath fogs up the glass and listens to the incomprehensible noises and chatter of the mentally ill.

Something's changed, he thinks. A new sensation, like something that's been sleeping inside of him for years has finally started to stir. Even through the haze of sedatives, Pete can feel it awakening, giving him strength, a new sense of purpose.

An old woman in white linen dress crooks her head and peeks at Pete through the curtain of thinning, gray hair. Her eyes are a matching gray, the black pinprick pupils the only contrast against all that white.

She stares at Pete for a while, swishing her head from side to side, then folds her arms over her face in a dramatic display of fear, shielding herself from him, hissing like a cornered cat as she shrinks away.

"Freak," Pete murmurs to himself, smushing his nose into the cool metal bars.

When the night finally creeps over them and the people start wandering out of the lounge, he retreats back to his white, padded room. He presses his cheek on the floor and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the doors getting locked for the night. One of the guards walks into the room and looms over Pete, the epitome of authority.

"There's a room with a bed down the hall reserved for you, this is just for the newcomers waiting to be checked in."

"What if I like it here?" Pete says, voice muffled against the padding.

"Tough," the man says, hoisting Pete up by the back of his shirt and marches him out of the room.

Anger flares up inside of Pete. He thinks he could snap the man's neck like a twig, but as he tries to struggle against the hold, he realizes he's met a worthy opponent.

The guard shoves him into his new room so hard he loses his footing and staggers down, says with a sneer, "Doors open in the morning, have pleasant dreams," then pulls the door shut, snapping it tight, the lock clicking into place.

Pete pulls himself along the floor towards the window. He leans his back on the side of the bed and folds his legs against his chest, pressing his chin into his knees, looking at the crows circling his window on the other side.

 

\--

 

It's only when another dust storm starts looming in the distance that Brian gives the sign to stop.

"Everyone inside," he yells, walking around the caravan of trucks and trailers while people run around gathering things, roll the car windows up and start covering the biggest cracks and holes in their trailers with clothes.

"Frank, get inside," Brian orders when he notices Frank climbing down the bed of his truck. He grabs Frank's wrist and starts dragging him towards Ray's trailer, ignoring Frank's protests.

Frank throws glances at the brothers' trailer. Gerard is stuffing one of his old scarves into a crack on the wall next to the faded painting of a fortune-teller, just above her crystal ball.

"Oh, but I don't wanna bother you guys," Frank tries to say while Brian makes him stumble on the steps. "I was thinking I'd go stay with Gerard and Mikey --"

Brian barks a laugh, pushing Frank through the doorway. "Oh please, could he be more obvious?" he asks Ray as he pulls the door closed behind him.

"Huh?" comes Ray's distracted reply. He's running his fingers up and down the guitar strings in the lamplight, back partly turned to them.

"Never mind," Brian rolls his eyes, and Bob gives an amused snort in the corner, toying with the pack of cigarettes in his hands.

The wind starts picking up, and soon it's a full blown storm, dust lashing against the windows hard enough for it to be scary, like the wind could knock down the trailers and trash them around.

Brian's leaning back in his chair next to Bob, his legs stretched out and head resting on the wall, the tension in his body visibly melting. Bob's still turning the pack of smokes in his hands, hitting the lid against his palm.

"You have something on your mind," Ray says softly, putting his guitar away, regarding Frank with interest. He leans on his thighs, clasping his hands between his knees and waits for Frank to speak.

Frank imitates his posture, elbows pressing into his thighs. He ducks his head and scratches at the back of his neck, pulling at lumps of his overgrown, dirty hair, his scalp itching.

"What do you know about Avatars?" he asks, just wanting to get straight to the point. He watches as Ray's face turns into a frown, eyebrows knitting together into an unbroken line.

"I think I have some books about them, why do you want to know?"

"I saw the word somewhere and it stuck with me."

Ray gives him a skeptical look. "You just saw the word written somewhere? Jeez, Frank, you gotta take me to your walks sometime if that's the kind of stuff you find."

"So can you tell me anything about it?" Frank prompts.

"I guess, sure. But I'm gonna have to consult my private library first," he flashes a small smile, motioning at the shelf of dusty tomes behind his back. It spans the whole bottom half of the wall, and there's a tiny, spiky cactus sitting in a pot on top of it under the lampshade.

Frank sits back in his chair and sighs. He twiddles with his thumbs and alternates between watching Bob and Brian playing a game of poker -- Bob's been winning from the beginning, which has put Brian on the defensive -- and Ray wading through an old-looking book after another, occasionally mmm'ing to himself. When Bob's done robbing Brian of all of his pocket money, Ray presses his pointer finger to the double-page spread and says a comical, "Aha!"

"Find something?" Brian grunts, throwing the final wad of dollar bills at Bob's head. They’re pretty well up-to-date with matters considering the minister, mostly because of Brian’s incessant nagging. The look on Bob’s face when Frank told them about his nightmares and visions was just as spooked as everybody else’s.

"Yeah, yeah, it's all here. It says Avatars are embodiments. _A new personification of a familiar idea_ ,” he quotes. “Like, the embodiment of hope or the incarnation of evil, I think. Hindus believe in their deities manifesting themselves in human, superhuman or animal form."

"Huh," Frank says, feeling suddenly very small.

"That tell you anything?" Ray asks, studying Frank's face, still looking painfully interested.

Does it? Incarnations? Embodiments? He wouldn't be all that surprised if the minister really turned out to be evil incarnate, but. What does it all have to do with _him_? "I don't know," he answers honestly, and watches the excitement on Ray's face fade. "But thanks? I think I just need some time to mull this over."

"No problem," Ray says, slamming the book shut, but not before carefully marking the page with an old postcard. "Don't hesitate to ask for my help when you need it."

"Thanks, man, I appreciate it."

It's already a new morning when the wind dies down. Frank had spent the night dozing in the hard chair, his ass gradually getting number until he couldn't tell if he was still sitting in the chair or floating in air. The sisters had been in one of his dreams, standing in the middle of their stage in the dark, facing each other like mirror images and then dancing together in perfect sync.

Outside of Ray's trailer, people are checking out their vehicles and each other for damage and dusting off wide surfaces with dirty, holey rags.

Tegan's sitting on the steps of her trailer, knees drawn up to her chest. Bob makes his way to her and offers her a glass of water. She gulps it down in a few, quick swallows and hands the glass back to him, looking at him with her head tilted on one shoulder.

"Hey, Frank," Gerard says, removing himself from Mikey's chair when he notices him. "You doing okay? I was kind of expecting you to wait out the storm with me and Mikey."

Frank gives him an awkward smile, glancing at Bob out of habit. "I got shanghai’d into Ray's trailer before I could really react to it."

"Brian's been kinda intense lately," Gerard nods, stealing a quick glance at Bob and Tegan as well, "looking out for his own."

"Considering the circumstances, I guess that was to be expected."

Gerard hums in agreement, looking away and blinking hard.

"Hey, shit, um," Frank panics, touching Gerard's arm and then quickly snapping his hand back. "Are you --?"

"I'm good," Gerard says with a tight voice, thumbing his sternum. "Just, y'know."

"Yeah, I mean. I didn't know her like the rest of you, but even so, what happened to her -- shit. And she was always really nice to me, right from the beginning."

"She had a great spirit. She was just overall a great person, you know? She didn't ever leave anyone cold."

"She was wonderful," Frank agrees, trying not to think of her face in the bar window, like she wanted to tell him something.

In the afternoon they pass a medium-sized town and park just on the edge of it. Brian sends Frank and Gerard off to stock up on food, water and other supplies. A couple of carnies from Bert's crew follow them in one of their trucks, Maja sitting on the back with her legs hanging out.

They get back with both trucks loaded with necessities, and Frank's stomach twisting and churning, cold sweat breaking out on his skin.

"Goddamn it, Gee, why didn't you warn me about eating that fucking chili plate?" Frank moans, clutching at his stomach while Gerard's steering him into his trailer, out of the white-hot blazing sun.

"I tried to," Gerard says, sounding defensive, gripping Frank's arms a little tighter when he stumbles.

"Yeah, because a half-hearted _I don't think you should eat that_ is totally a fair warning."

"I said you shouldn't eat it, what more did you want?"

"How 'bout wrenching the plate from my hands and dumping it somewhere?" Frank suggests while Gerard throws him on the armchair, slides a pillow behind his back and then pushes the other chair next to Frank's legs, hoisting them up by his ankles.

On the bed Mikey cocks his eyebrow, and Frank just knows he's mocking him.

"Oh, you think this is funny, huh?" Frank says to Mikey, and Gerard lets out a laugh, going to sit on the edge of Mikey's bed, ruffling up Mikey's hair but then quickly smoothing it back on his forehead when Mikey gives him a look.

"You gotta see the humor in that."

Frank's stomach lurches, and he groans, feeling like he's falling.

"But Frank," Gerard adds, reaching out to squeeze his hand, "why don't you just heal yourself? You don't have to feel like this."

"I thought we went through this already? It wouldn't be right. Besides, getting sick was my own fucking fault, at least it'll teach me not to fucking eat street market food."

Gerard sighs, pressing his cool hand against Frank's burning neck. It feels _amazing_. "So stubborn," he murmurs, and Frank can just manage a tired groan for reply.

"We'll probably start moving soon, but you should sleep this off here, okay? Take it easy for a while."

Frank sighs. He's feeling delirious, eyes already slipping shut.

He's standing in the field again, all around him the corn is growing thick and tall.

There's distant rustling behind him, and glancing over his shoulder he can just about make out a shape moving towards him by the swaying of the cobs.

 _Shit_ , he thinks, starting to run, just knowing who’s following him fast on his heels.

His knees buckle and he falls down, dry stems on the ground scraping his palms. Judging by the sounds of stalks snapping in half and rapid panting, his pursuer is getting closer, and as Frank scrambles back up he realizes just how screwed he is. The furious face of the minister is now just within a stone's throw from him, bare-chested, the black, wilted tree on his chest undulating as he runs.

Frank feels himself falling again, but now the sensation is stronger, and just as the minister yanks at his shoulder, Frank tumbles over the armchair, smacking face-first on the floor.

"Ow," he says, inhaling a lungful of dust and then coughing it back up.

"Frank? Frankie, what the hell happened?" Gerard rushes to his side, takes a hold of his arm and helps him to sit up.

"I fell off the chair," Frank explains dumbly, rubbing his jaw.

"Well, yeah," Gerard says, giving him more space. "Was it another bad dream?"

Frank nods, trying to shake off the gut-wrenching panic that he had felt when the minister was gaining on him. Things had changed, the tattooed man had gotten a familiar face. The two scariest people of his dreams had merged into one.

"Fuck," he says, pressing his head into his forearms. "I fucking hate my mind for coming up with this shit. Like, what the hell is wrong with me?"

"It's probably just you feeling sick, Frank. It's normal for people with stomach ache to have nightmares."

Normally Frank would agree, but these particular nightmares don't seem to care whether he's feeling good or not.

"How are you otherwise? How's the nausea?"

"Oh," Frank wonders out loud, pressing his hand to his belly, giving it an experimental rub. The churning has stopped, all there's left is a similar sick feeling he gets sometimes inside a moving car, which, yeah, he can deal with that. "It's almost gone?"

Gerard is grinning, looking pleased as he helps Frank down in the chair. "Now that's what I like to hear."

 

\--

 

The pills they keep feeding him have kept Pete teetering on the edge of consciousness all day long. Hurley's come check up on him twice already, asking him the kind of questions that Pete doesn't think belong in any therapist's handbook.

Kneeling down next to him, Hurley's brows hike up his forehead over the frame of his glasses as he asks him about his thoughts on the Bible. "Come on, Brother. Just humor me, okay?"

Pete raises his head from his knees and runs a hand through his hair, digging his thumbs into his eye sockets.

"I was raised to live by it, but I've always taken it with a grain of salt. Some stuff in there's just crazier than the old lady next door."

"Do you mean Esther?" Hurley asks, glancing behind his back. "She's been here the longest. I'd watch my mouth when she's near, she might not look like much but she has this mean habit of yanking your hair if she feels like she's being offended. Tough little lady, that one."

"Are you supposed to tell me that?" Pete asks without real interest. If he could just clear his mind, to scrub off all that fog, he'd be out of this place in a flash.

"It's nothing confidential," Hurley says, studying Pete. "Nothing you couldn't find out by just being here."

“I guess,” Pete shrugs one shoulder, blinking against the dryness of his eyes.

“Do you feel like telling me more about your religion?”

Pete sighs, looking out the window while he contemplates Hurley’s question. “I was born without a religion,” he says, and Hurley is all ears again. “I was raised a Baptist, but around the time of my confirmation, I started questioning myself and the people around me. I talked to a Methodist preacher who was passing through the town and everything about him was so new and refreshing.” He had wanted to rile up Joe is what he means, in his new cassock and collar feeling more authoritative and important than Joe could ever dream to be, though Joe had just been pleased that Pete was finally starting to make his own decisions about his life.

They would argue about theology at the breakfast table while Ashlee tried to conciliate their disagreements.

He’s never told anyone how little religion actually means to him. Not even Ashlee knows. He feels like a puppet; for all his life he's been led by someone. By Joe. By his congregation. And now by this incessant thrumming in his blood that's turning him into something he can't even give a name to.

When Hurley finally gets bored with him, Pete clambers up on unsteady legs and staggers out of his room, down the hallway and into the lounge. He makes sure to keep his distance from Esther, even though the last time they met she seemed more spooked by him than the other way around.

He walks to the window and stares out into space.

He had been dreaming again, dreaming of running, of chasing some poor kid through the cornfield. In his dream he had felt strong, invincible, the kid hadn't stood a chance.

A crow lands on the windowsill and blinks a few times, tapping at the glass with its beak, a lot like earlier in the white room. A nurse is listening to the radio in the break room behind the open doorway, her white-stockinged leg bouncing on her knee to the rhythm of the song. And it’s such a familiar sight that for a while Pete has to remind himself where he is. Then the song ends and a talk show takes its place. The speaker sounds young and enthusiastic, distantly familiar to him, but he just can't place it.

"Listeners! Another beautiful day in our land of plenty! It feels like the whole of His creation is out rejoicing over the clear blue sky, lying on the soft bed of the crop fields, socializing in the streets of our growing cities, drinking coffee out on the porch," the speaker says, but Pete’s zoning out, the blood rushing through his veins loud in his ears, his head heavy to hold. It's only the mention of his own name that regains his interest.

"I have a very special guest with me here today, for all of you lucky listeners of KMTR radio. She's real easy on the eyes, a complete breeze in the studio. Why don't you say a quick hello to our listeners?"

"Uhhhm," comes a gushing breath of air. "Hello?"

"No, no, you don't have to lean so close to the mic, now that's more like it! Hey now, don't worry, first time for everything!"

Pete frowns, inching closer to the doorway, staring at the radio.

"Now then. Miss Simpson comes from the town of Angels with a message she wants to deliver out to as many people she can reach, isn't that right?"

"That's right, um. I don't know what to say?"

"No need to feel nervous being on the air, our listeners are all very fine, decent people. Now, Miss Simpson's brother, Peter has been missing for a few days. He works as a minister in the town of Angels in California. He's an influential speaker and a true man of God, admired by everyone who has had the privilege to meet him, myself included."

"He has that effect on people," Ashlee says. "It has been very difficult with him gone."

"I'm sure it has. Now we ask anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Peter Simpson to contact the radio station immediately. Brother Peter, if you hear this, your sister needs you, your Church needs you --"

"And father. I -- daddy seems so sad whenever I mention your name, he really wishes to see you, I think it would help his recovery."

"Well, there you have it. Brother Peter, where are you? Will you come back home to your family and friends? This is William Beckett with Miss Ashlee Simpson signing out."

Pete steps inside the break room; the nurse casts a worried glance at him and backs away a few steps until her back hits the edge of the table. He kneels down by the radio and presses his ear against the speaker, listening to the sound waves, almost able to see Ashlee and William Beckett in the studio when he closes his eyes, and when he pricks up his ears, he can still hear her voice, thanking William for his help.

"I'm coming home, Ash," he whispers, running his palm along the frame of the radio. "I'm coming home to you."

The nurse calls for the guard and he comes running. He picks Pete up by his arm and walks him out of the room, standing him just on the other side of the yellow line on the floor.

"See that line? It's the line that keeps freaks like you separated from the rest of the world. I see you cross that line one more time and you're in serious trouble, little man. Got that?"

Pete sneers, twisting his body out of the tight grip. "By the end of the day, we'll see just who's the one in trouble."

In the morning after, Hurley walks into his room, reading his chart as usual, giving him a distracted nod.

"Ah. I see that you caused some ruckus yesterday," he speaks with his mouth quirked up in an amused grin. His disheveled hair and beard remind Pete of a brushwood fence. "Joan tells me you wandered into the break room and started talking to the radio, and that Mark had to drag you out. She was sure you'd attack her any minute."

"After I was done talking to the radio?" Pete asks, digging the heels of his palms into his ribs.

"I guess so," Hurley says with a chuckle.

"Come on, doc," Pete says, blinking away the film of fog in his eyes. "I'm ready to go home now."

"You think so? Even after yesterday?" Hurley asks, scrutinizing Pete.

"I know so. I have a sister out there looking for me. She's probably worried sick. I'm not crazy, okay? Even if everyone seems to think so."

"You've never talked about your sister before," Hurley prompts, checking the chart for the umpteenth time.

Pete gives a shrug of his shoulders, staring at his hands. "You can check her out. Tell her to come and pick me up, right?"

"What's her name? Actually, more importantly, are you finally willing to tell me _yours_?"

Pete sighs, a part of him feels like he's losing some kind of battle when he says, "It's Pete. Peter... Simpson."

Behind Hurley's glasses his eyes shrink into two thin lines. He scratches his head and then turns to look at Pete again, something registering.

"You're the man they talked about on the radio yesterday? Brother Simpson?"

Pete cringes, never at ease when someone calls him by his foster father's name. "It's Pete. Just. Just _Pete_."

"Okay, Pete. Nice to finally meet you," Hurley says, offering him a hand to shake.

Pete hesitates for a moment, staring at the hand suspiciously, but then thinks it's best to just humor this man if he ever wants to see Ashlee again.

"I'll check up your story, and if it holds, I'll see what I can do about speeding up your departure. Your sister's name is Ashlee Simpson, correct?"

Pete nods, watching as Hurley echoes his move and then turns around, walking out of the room.

After just a couple of hours, Pete's sitting in the backseat of an unfamiliar car with Ashlee by his side. He didn’t realize Hayley knew how to drive, but she’s holding the steering wheel with relaxed familiarity, her foot heavy on the pedal.

Ash hasn't said much to him since she met him in Hurley's office in her Sunday best, clasping her hands in her lap, a half-empty cup of coffee on Hurley's desk next to her, her anxiety infectious. She's staring out the window now, but she has Pete's hand in a tight, bone-crushing grip. Hurley's voice still rings in his ears: _No identity document, no wallet, no nothing. Clothes ragged, face unshaven, reeking of alcohol and old sweat. What were we supposed to do?_

"Well," Pete prods when they're nearing the town, feeling that cotton surrounding his head finally starting to clear up. "Don't tell me you have nothing to say."

"I don't know where to start," she admits to her barely-there reflection in the car window. "I mean, really, Pete? I've been looking for you for days, thinking up all these horror scenarios where you're lying in a ditch somewhere, mugged and bleeding to death. When we found your clerical collar outside the church, just lying in the dirt, shoemarks all over it, we knew something was wrong. You just disappeared! And at the worst of times! And what, all this time you've been locked up in a _mental hospital_? It's like I don't even know you."

"Don't say that, Ash," Pete cringes, but she gives him a look that quickly shuts him up.

They drive the rest of the way back to town in silence. The trees swim before his eyes, and when they cross the bridge where his adventure started from, the glitter of the sun in the river makes his eyes prickle and run.

Inside the house Ash drags him up the stairs to the bathroom, says with a stern look, "You're not allowed to come out until you smell like pine again," and slaps a new bar of soft pine soap on the flat of his palm.

"Yes ma'am," says Pete, his grin tired but wide when she rolls her eyes at him and closes the door behind her, leaving Pete alone in the room.

He peels off the clothes he had worn on the day he disappeared, placing the jacket over the white, rickety stool and folding his dress shirt and brown pants on top of it. He takes a curious sniff at his dirty-white socks and underwear, the tart, stinging smell hitting his nose like tear gas.

"Jeez, what've you been doing, old man?" he asks himself, chucking the socks and boxers on the floor next to the stool.

Stepping in the shower, he dunks his head under the spray of hot water with relish, rolling it from side to side between his shoulders. He takes the bar of soap and starts scrubbing, working it on his itching scalp and skin with haphazard strokes, digging it in his armpits and running it down his stomach, soaping up his junk and then palming his cock and balls lazily for a while. His fatigue washes off like the dirt from his skin, disappearing down the drain, and it doesn't take him long to start feeling like himself again.

It feels good to be home again, and Ashlee's already starting to come around; she could never stay mad at him for too long.

Something familiar stirs in him when he thinks of her, and he squeezes his fist around his cock a little harder and digs his teeth into his lip.

Ashlee's reclining on the living room couch holding a book over her face when Pete comes down, the radio on the table by her feet switched on. He admires her from the doorway for a while, studying the curve of her calf and the way her skirt hem's hitched up on her thigh. He coughs dryly, getting her attention.

"Pete!" Ashlee starts, closing the book on her chest. "You finished washing up? Come here and let me smell you."

"Ash," Pete grins, shaking his head, but obeys her anyway, allowing her to pull him down by the shirt and press her nose into his neck. "All clean?"

"All clean," she confirms, letting go of his shirt. She sits up and puts her book on the coffee table, clasping her hands in her lap. On the radio Ruth Edding is singing, _Shout Hallelujah, c'mon get happy, get ready for the judgment day!_

"Are you ready to meet daddy? His condition allows him only to mumble words, and I can never really make out of what he's trying to say, but I know he's been asking for you every day."

Pete cringes inwardly. Joe Simpson has always managed to put the fear of God in him, and even now he can't help but feel a little nervous, a little like he wants to run and hide. But he's done that already, hasn't he? Maybe it's finally time to face the old man and put this all behind him. Anyway, what could that old man do to him now?

"Let's go."

To his surprise instead of going to the hospital Ash leads him straight back upstairs. She opens the door to the guest room and pokes her head in. "Daddy? I've got someone special here to see you." She smiles bright and pushes Pete in with so much force it makes him stumble.

"Surprise?" Pete says, taking in the scene. Joe's lying in bed with the window above his head ajar, watching him with spooked, watery eyes.

Ash leans down to plant a kiss on Joe's forehead, oblivious to his discomfort. "We found him! Isn't that wonderful?" She pats Joe on the cheek and then turns around, gives Pete's arm a squeeze and adds, "Well, I'll leave you boys alone. I bet you have a lot of catching up to do."

"Looks like you're doing better," Pete says when Ashlee's closed the door. "I mean, last time I saw you, you were lying in the hospital, totally out of it. But look at you now in your crisp pajamas, no doubt being pampered ad nauseam by the women. You're living like a king, old man. How about that."

Joe whispers something inaudible, motioning Pete to come closer.

"What was that?" Pete asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning his ear against Joe's mouth.

"Satan," Joe spits out, turning his head to the side away from Pete.

"Y'know what? I had a lot of time to think while I was locked up inside that mental hospital. Did you hear about that, by the way? Crazy stuff," he laughs at his own pun, smoothing out the rucked up sheet on Joe's chest, getting all the wrinkles out. "I met this woman there, Esther, total nut job, kinda liked her actually. Anyway. I had time to think, more than I ever had before, and I think you might be onto something. I feel _powerful_. Like a leader. Like I'm almost done figuring out my purpose in life. It's just on the tip of my tongue, I'm gonna figure it out soon. And who knows, right? At this moment in time I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads, like I could go either way. I don't know, I guess I'm just waiting for that final push in the right direction."

Joe wets his lips and swallows, his slow movements irritating Pete. "No crossroads," he whispers, his words so jumbled up Pete's surprised he can even make sense of him. "Already made your choice."

Pete's brows knit into a frown. He's looking at Joe on that bed. A trail of spit is trickling down the side of his mouth, his arms and legs stiff and arranged in an awkward way. Weak and pathetic. He did that to him, he's the reason Joe's like that now.

"For your sake, I hope you're wrong," he voices darkly, turning his head to the window; crows are flying in a circle in the clear blue sky.

Ashlee meets him in the hallway. “Hey, how’d it go? Did you have a good talk?”

“Yeah, it was good to see him doing better already,” Pete says. His stomach is churning when he thinks about the thinning skin on Joe’s hands, his weak voice and watery eyes. Ashlee grins, pulling him in for a quick hug.

“I’m so glad,” she says, patting him on the back and then squeezing his upper arm. “I’m going to ask Hayley to prepare us something amazing for dinner. She makes a mean pot roast. We need to celebrate your return! I’ll have to check with Hayley if we have any beef left from yesterday’s dinner, otherwise I’ll just send her out to buy some…”

Pete nods, already tuning her out, her chatter making his head spin. He retreats into his room, making sure the door is firmly shut behind him. He leans against the dressing table, taking in deep breaths, the only noise the swishing of air in and out of his nose. He stares at his image in the mirror and focuses on stopping the walls from falling down on him.

"What now, Pete? What're you gonna do?" he asks his mirror image, gripping the varnished sides of the dressing table, digging his nails in. He thinks about what Joe said in his sickbed about him having made his choice already. Sometimes, though, it’s almost like someone else is making all the hard choices for him, and it’s a comforting thought, that someone’s looking out for him, taking care of him. He’s been made important, so who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

The itch in his head is getting worse, almost throbbing now. He picks up a hairbrush and starts rubbing it over his head vigorously, scratching his scalp, the itch unbearable.

"What the?"

There's a piece of scalp stuck to the teeth of the brush, a tuft of his black hair still attached to it.

He brings his hand up to his hairline and gives a tentative tug, more scalp peeling off. Panicking, Pete starts to claw at his hair and face, watching as pieces fall on the dressing table with wet squelching splats. Under all that dead skin there's a new face for him: greener eyes, neater eyebrows, thinner lips and a sharper jaw.

"What the fuck," he says when no more skin peels off, staring at the man in the mirror. "Who are you?" But he knows this man, he's seen him before, has dreamed about chasing him and tearing him apart.

“ _Who are you_?”

“I’m Frank,” his mirror image says, features sharp like a blade. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

“Frank,” Pete breathes out, staring at the image, not daring to blink.

"Is everything alright, Pete?" Ash pokes her head in the room, knocking on the door belatedly.

Pete looks at the mirror again and finds that things have gone back to normal, the scraps of his scalp and skin vanished from the top of the table like nothing had ever happened, like it had all been in his head.

"Huh?"

"I said is everything okay? I heard noises."

Pete checks the mirror one last time, touching his face, tugging at his hair. The fast pulse that's beating against his eardrums is making him queasy, or maybe it's the memory of his skin peeling off, hitting the table.

"I uh, yeah, everything's perfect."

"Okay," Ash says, flashing him a faint smile. "When you're done, come downstairs to have coffee with me?"

"Sure thing," Pete nods jerkily, forcing himself to match Ash's smile.

When the evening rolls around Pete decides to go for a walk. Ashlee's eyeing him in the doorway with her arms crossed to her chest.

"I won't leave the town, okay?" Pete says for the nth time, shrugging into his jacket. "I just want to clear my head, they didn't let me outside in the hospital."

"Fine, but if you get yourself in trouble again, I'll let Hayley cuff you to the drainpipe like a dog. Don't think she won't," she adds, poking him in the chest with her finger.

"I'm sure she'd love that," Pete says. He leans forward and smacks a loud kiss on Ashlee's cheek, chuckling as she pushes him out of the door with a toothy grin.

"Oh, Pete!" she yells after him, remembering herself. "William Beckett is coming to meet you tomorrow morning, don't forget!"

Pete frowns, turning around on his heel. "Who?"

"Bill Beckett? Come on, Pete, you must remember him! The young man from the radio. He seemed genuinely concerned about you when I came to ask him for help."

"Why's he coming here, though? Did you call him on the phone? _Ashlee_."

"Don't Ashlee me, he made me promise I'd let him know if I heard anything about you, if you came back. You owe him a talk on his radio show."

Pete sighs, waving her off. "Fine, whatever, I'll meet up with him in the morning."

He heads to the church hall first, checking that the house is still standing. It's getting dark already, but there are lights on and people inside. _I might just get this over with_ , he thinks, stepping in.

Inside the church every migrant wants to be the first to hug him and shake his hand, to know where he's been. Pete flashes teeth and fights the urge to push them all away. These are his people, his little migrants. He holds the power of a hundred men. With his migrants on his side there is nothing he can't accomplish. _Play nice, Pete_ a voice inside him warns, and he smiles a little wider and puts a little more meaning into every handshake that follows.

When he finally gets to leave, the sun has already sunk under the horizon. He doesn't feel tired though, doesn't want to make his way back home yet. So he continues down the road, smelling the air. He stops by a dark, partly broken window of a derelict house, thinking he saw something moving inside. He starts, taking a shaky step back when a man appears in the window, staring at him with black, stern eyes. He is shirtless, but on his chest there’s a tattoo of a large wilted tree, covering him from neck to hips.

"Who are you," he asks, watching the man in the window mouthing the words back at Pete.

It takes a while to realize that he's staring at his own twisted reflection. "It can't be," he says, walking up to the window. He studies the reflection, taking in all the differences and marveling at the similarities. "What do you want from me?" he asks, touching the window with his fingertips, the man meeting his touch in the broken glass.

A jolt of energy flashes through Pete, and he stumbles back, falling on his ass in the dirt.

He rolls over onto his stomach and presses his head down, everything moving like a lightning bolt in his eyes. Suddenly he can smell the wet soil ten feet under him, sense the worms and beetles moving in the ground under his hands, hear every creak and crackle, every clink of fork against plate and the cutting of a steak, people talking inside their homes.

When he turns his head up at the sky, every star feels as powerful as the sun, but at the same time he realizes they have nothing on him.

Clambering up on unsteady feet, Pete turns to look at the window again but this time his reflection is as normal as it's ever been, all down to the early wrinkles under his eyes.

He touches his face and frowns.

"What do you want from me?" he says, every cell in his body buzzing with energy.

At night in his room Pete unbuttons his shirt in the lamplight in front of the mirror and takes a startled step back, his eyes widening at the sight.

He touches the figure on his chest, tracing the black branches of the tree with his fingers, marveling at the details.

It looks good on him, fits him like a second skin, like he was born to wear it.

 

\--

 

At breakfast Brian seeks Frank out and asks him about Ozzy. "I take it you still want to visit him at the rest home?" He gives Butcher a smile and observes him scooping up more bacon from the pan and slapping it on Brian's plate.

"Are we close?" Frank asks, poking at the mess of beans on his plate with a slice of dry bread.

Brian swallows and nods, jabbing at the egg yolk with his fork, watching how it wobbles. "It's just a good thirty miles from the crossroads."

"Thanks," Frank says, grabbing his mug of coffee and gulping down the burning, gut-twisting drink in one go, squeezing his eyes shut tight and pulling a face as a shiver-shake travels through his body. "Yech. Did Gerard make this?” he wonders out loud, and adds, “Can I borrow your truck?"

Brian snorts, shaking his head. "Kid, you're shameless. What do I look like, a fucking car rental?"

"Well, what, you expect me to walk all the way there in this heat?" Frank scowls. Even sitting still is making him sweat. "You can just feed me to the fucking vultures right now, it'll save me heaps of trouble."

"Ha, ha," Brian says, rummaging in his pocket. He fishes out the keys and smacks them on the table, giving Frank a stern look. "If anything happens to my truck, I expect you know the consequences."

"It's not like it's the first time I'm driving it, man."

"No, but it's the first time you're going alone. I trust you won't run away with her, and you should know that if you do, I _will_ hunt you down, and then the vultures will be the least of your worries."

"C'mon, Brian," Frank pulls his face into a bratty grin and stands up, grabbing the keys. "What kind of a man do you take me for?"

"We'll wait till the evening, if you're not back by then, just follow our trail. You know where to drive."

"I'll be back," Frank says, finding it an easy promise to make.

When he's driving, the time feels like it's just crawling along. He keeps touching the photo in his pocket, making sure it's still there. He hopes Ozzy will have answers for him because he's getting sick of being kept in the dark.

The rest home is bigger than he expected, even the parking lot could easily fit a hundred cars. The building looks like an institution instead of the small, homey hospice he'd pictured in his head.

He slams the car door shut and hops up the steps to the building, trying to tell the bats flapping in his belly to behave.

He looks around the room and spots an empty desk. "Hello?" he asks but he's alone in the room.

He meanders around, acquainting himself with the building. Noticing a doorway on the far end of the main hall, he peeks in, taking in the small, built-in chapel on the other side of the doorway. Curiosity gets the best of him and he steps in, marveling at the clean stone walls painted by the light coming in through the stained glass window behind the altar, its intricate details and strong, deep colors the backbone of the small room. He walks to the altar, running his hand along the varnished pews.

A wooden statue of Our Lady catches his eye. She's standing on the left side of the altar, holding a wooden lily in her hand. She’s small and discreet, sculpted from light balsa wood and kept clean from paint, the back of her veil cast in the hues of the altarpiece.

He stares at the beautiful sculpted face as a teardrop starts gliding down her cheek. He blinks at it, startled, and reaches out to catch it on his thumb.

"Can I help you?" A stern voice startles him. He tears his eyes away from the weeping Mary and turns around, noticing a young nun standing in the doorway.

"I uh, I'm looking for someone," Frank says, feeling self-conscious under her tight scrutiny. "His name's Ozzy?"

The woman gives him a blank look. "Ozzy? Does your friend have a last name?"

"He's not my friend," Frank is quick to correct her, sounding almost defensive. "I've never even met him before."

"I'm sorry, but only the occupant's friends and family are allowed to visit. Even if I knew who you were talking about, I simply couldn't allow you to see him."

Frank's stomach sinks. He did not just come all this way for nothing. "Listen, lady, it's really important that I meet him. Shit. I can't -- I can't go back without talking to him."

"What did you say your name was again?" she asks, flipping through a sheaf of files she’s been carrying under her arm.

"I didn't. It's Frank. Frank Iero."

A look of surprise crosses her face and she seems suddenly very interested in him. "Frank Iero, well I'll be damned."

"That name says something to you?"

She nods and turns to leave, motioning for him to follow with a tip of her head. "You better come with me. I'm Sister Mary, John's been asking for you for as long as I can remember."

"John?" Frank asks, struggling to keep up with her long legs.

"I think you called him Ozzy. He never really makes much sense, but you're the one he seems to be waiting for."

"But how? I've never even met the man."

"You'll have to ask him about it," she says like she wants to know the answer just as much as Frank does.

She leads him up the spiral staircase and down a narrow corridor. Everything is white here, from the floor to the walls to Sister Mary's leather sandals and ankle socks. The arched windows and high ceiling remind him of cathedrals.

She stops in front of a door and places her hand on the knob, turning around to face Frank. "I don't have the answers, but for what it's worth, John seems to hold you in high value. Your name is the only one on the visitors list, Frank. Whoever you are, I'm glad you're finally here."

She pushes the door open and nudges Frank inside.

"John? John, there's someone here to see you!"

It takes a while before his eyes adjust to the dark room, but he notices Ozzy almost immediately. He's curled up in a ball under the window, hidden in the long shadow of the room.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," the nun says, giving Frank an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"Wait," he says before the door closes, not taking his eyes off the man. "He's not dangerous or anything, is he?"

"Oh no," Mary says reassuringly, "really quite the contrary. You'll be fine," she adds, pulling the door closed with a soft thud. Even with Sister Mary's reassurances, Frank can't help but feel like he's been thrown into the lions.

"Uh," he says, inching closer to the man with cautious movements, giving him a weak nod. Ozzy rocks back and forth, his long, messy hair curtaining his face. He kneels down at an arm's length from Ozzy, trying to make eye contact with him, but Ozzy's head is pressed down and he's shaking it while murmuring to himself in a broken, nonsensical way.

"I'm Frank," Frank says, and Ozzy finally stops his rocking and looks up, eyes trying to focus on Frank's face. "You wanted to see me, right? How do you know my name?"

Ozzy licks his lips and pulls a face, turning his head up at the window, the words he garbles out are all jumbled and strange and Frank can’t make sense of them.

"Come on, man, I've come a long way just to meet you, and you don't even have anything to say to me?"

Ozzy huffs out and gives him an annoyed look, glancing at the walls again. Frank realizes with a start that the walls are full of drawings, and every single one represents the tattooed man from his dreams. He stands up and detaches one of the drawings, studying the figure, his black eyes and the wilted tree on his chest, feeling oddly disconnected from the world.

"Who is he?" he asks with a distant voice, showing Ozzy the drawing.

Ozzy stops his muttering and stretches out his jaw, moistening his lips. "You're connected," he says with a scratchy voice, jabbing Frank's chest with his pointer finger, his eyes bulging out.

Frank fishes the photo out of his pocket and shows it to him. "Is he connected, too?"

Ozzy studies the photo for a while, turning it in his hands and pressing it to his nose, giving it a big sniff, then recoiling.

Frank's starting to think this is all some big scam, some stupid prank Brian and Bob are pulling on him. But then Ozzy gives him an almost sober look and says, "That's him," pointing at the drawing.

"What? The kid is the man in your drawing? They're the same person?"

Shrill giggles shake Ozzy’s body and he drops the photo from his grip, starting to rock back and forth on his heels. "Little Pete," he titters, his eyes gleaming danger in the dark.

"His name is Pete?" Frank asks perplexed. He stretches out his leg and puts his foot on the photograph, sliding it toward him along the dusty floor, not wanting to bend down and pick it up so close to Ozzy. Frank’s not willing to trust Sister Mary’s depiction of him. He’s making Frank’s skin crawl. "How... is he like, oh shit, is he gonna kill me?"

Ozzy sobers up so fast it’s almost comical. "Not if you get him first," he says, jumping up. He rummages in a drawer for a while and then turns around, holding a dagger in his hand.

"Whoa, easy," Frank says, staggering up and backing into a wall.

Ozzy rolls his eyes and shoves the dagger into Frank's hands, making him grip the handle tightly. "You will need this where you're going," he says, taking a step back and standing tall. The light from the window casts a bright aura around his frame but his body is shadowed and dark.

"And where am I going, exactly?" Frank asks, unsure if he wants to be ordered around by this lunatic.

Ozzy flashes yellow teeth and says, with arms spread wide, "Where the dog and the wolf howl at the moon, son. That's where you will find little Pete."

"Oh sure, of course," Frank says, shaking his head. He hates riddles, hates them with everything he has. "Why would I wanna find him, though? He seems fucking crazy."

"Because -- _god, do I have to spell it out to you_? Because if you don't find him and destroy him, the world as we know it will end, you fool,” Ozzy grits out. “You’ve seen it! A mushroom cloud of smoke, all around raging wars, people being torn to pieces. A big explosion that destroys everything all around it."

"Look man, I don't know what kind of mind reading hijinx you're pulling on me --"

"It's not mind reading, idiot," Ozzy despairs, scrubbing at his forehead so hard his skin is turning red, patience wearing thin. Frank doesn’t think Ozzy has any right to look so indignant after everything he’s told Frank. "I've seen those dreams, too. Ever since we took little Pete in."

"Just -- what happened to him?"

"I tried to get rid of him, okay? When I started to realize his powers, what he was capable of. Things just got real creepy, right from the beginning. His blank eyes, the way he'd spook the animals just by being there. I did everything I could think of... But he was remarkable, even as a child. So much power in such a teeny-weeny little boy."

"What did you do?" Frank asks nervously, Ozzy's disjointed little speech making him more and more nauseous.

Ozzy gives him a grim smile, shrinking into himself. "I thought throwing him out the truck and leaving him in the middle of nowhere would do the trick. But the dreams wouldn't stop coming. That's how I knew he was still alive."

Frank steps away from Ozzy, clutching the dagger in a tight fist. "Christ," he exhales, shaking his head, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe. "Why me? What do I have to do with all this?"

Ozzy stares at his hands and shrugs, starting to rock back and forth again. "You're the one with the power. You're his opposite, the only one who can stop him. The only one who is able to kill him."

"Kill him? Look, come on. I -- I can't kill a human, I'm not a murderer."

"He's not a man. His blood runs blue like the evening sky."

"What is that, like a metaphor?"

Ozzy gives him a disgruntled glare, yanking hard at the strands of hair hanging on his shoulders. "If you don't kill him, he _will_ kill you. He’ll kill every one of us."

Back in the car Frank cranks up the radio and steps on the gas, speeding away from the rest home as fast as he can.

"Fucking crazy motherfucker," he says to the front mirror, rummaging in the glove compartment and pulling out two cigarettes from a pack that's hidden between sheets of paper. He places one between his lips and the other behind his ear and lights up. He takes out the drawing from his pocket and unfolds it, studying the man's face while he drives. Ozzy has scribbled a note on the left of the paper with shaky handwriting. It reads, _a dark heart dwells where branches meet_ , and there's an arrow pointing to the man's chest and a miniature version of the dagger next to it. You don't have to be a genius to know what Ozzy's implying. The real dagger's pressing against his thigh, its leathery sheath digging into his skin. He thinks about Ozzy's advice, a dark, deep dread creeping into him. He's not a killer. If his mama saw him now, she'd say he was way out of his depth. She would tell him to stop messing around with stuff that's too big for him to handle and just go home, home where he belongs.

He savors the last of his cigarette, letting it shed ashes on the steering wheel. He lets out a heavy sigh and throws the butt out the window, reclining in the seat.

The sun's just starting to set when Frank returns, and the carnies are making last minute preparations for the long drive south.

Brian pulls the door open for him when Frank stops the car, ushering him out.

"Well? How did it go? Did you get your answers?"

Frank gives him a look, slamming the door shut and chucking him his keys. "Your Ozzy is one creepy son of a bitch," he says but his heart isn't really in it. All he can think about is whether Ozzy's dreams of catastrophe were what drove him mad, and if that would happen to him one day.

"No kidding," Brian says, increasing his pace to keep up with Frank. "I could have told you that. I did tell you that."

"Yeah, you did." Frank stops close by Ray's trailer, glancing at Brian, the sun caught in his lashes. "But he's legit, right? Everything he said to me, I feel like he wasn't just trying to pull my leg."

Brian gives Frank a strange look, toying with his keys. "I think you should talk to Ray," he just says, squeezing Frank’s shoulder before leaving him to his thoughts.

Frank is about to knock on Ray's door when Gerard calls for him, giving him a small wave. "I was thinking," he says when Frank's closed the distance between them, "if you wanted to spend the drive in our trailer? I mean, I know you like being outside, and of course our trailer has nothing on Brian's awesome truck, but you'd have some company at least?" Gerard babbles, wringing his hands. "I, uh -- _we_ miss having you around."

Frank's heart has leapt to his throat, but his stomach sinks when he realizes that he can’t. A huge part of him wants to take Gerard up on his offer, but a bigger part is telling him he needs to go bug Ray for more answers. He really, really just needs some answers. "That'd be so great, like, seriously. But I have to talk to Ray and I don't think it can wait till our next stop."

"Oh," Gerard looks disappointed, although he quickly masks it with a smile. "I get it, it's alright. Some other time, yeah?"

"Yeah, definitely," Frank agrees, smiling at him in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "It's just, all this stuff with Ozzy? I need a second opinion and Ray seems like my best option. I mean, he has a fucking traveling library with him."

"Ray's definitely your man," Gerard says, squeezing Frank's arm before turning to leave.

"Gee, wait," Frank calls, jogging up to him and scooping him into a big, warm hug, wrapping his arms tight around Gerard and holding him close.

Gerard pats him on the back with awkward thumps for a while and then just sinks into the hug, nuzzling his face into Frank's neck, pressing a smile there.

When Frank pulls back, Gerard's still smiling, the spot under his eye glaringly pink.

"I'll see you later," Frank promises, his chest warm as he musters up all the courage in the world and leans up on his toes to press a kiss on Gerard's cheek. He pulls back faster than he can think and flees to Ray's trailer, yanking the door open and disappearing inside without even waiting for an invitation.

"Frank?" Ray says, looking utterly dazed. "You're back."

"I -- yeah. I just got back."

"Did it go well?" Ray motions for Frank to sit, gently laying his guitar down on the bed. "What did you find out?"

Frank heaves a sigh and sits down, and then tells Ray everything, showing him the drawing and the dagger Ozzy gave him, and the photo of 'little Pete', which Ray now seems more interested than before.

"I heard him talking about Pete so often, but I just thought. I thought he was just going insane. I never realized this Pete actually existed."

"Whether he's real or not, I've been dreaming about him for months. Ray, this is... this is so fucked up. He said we were opposite powers, what do you think he meant by that?"

Ray hums, furrowing his brows. "Could it have something to do with the Avatar stuff?" he asks, going to look for his book.

"What do you mean? You don't think he's one, do you? Ray? Come on."

"The way you keep describing him... I dunno, he seems pretty evil."

Frank lets out a nervous giggle, pressing his arms against the flip of his stomach. Fuck everything, is this really his life? "But then that'd make me… No, come on man, I'm just your average guy, I've never been anything special."

"Frank, you _heal people_ ," Ray intones, his eyes intense. "That's not the kind of trick you will see every day, not even in a carnival. And yours isn't even a trick, is it? You're the real deal."

Frank stands up, almost losing his balance in the moving vehicle. "How do you know? Did... did Gerard --?"

"Frank, sit down. Gerard didn't tell me anything. You can fool all these people, you can even fool Brian -- mostly I think because he's not ready to accept the truth -- but you can't fool me. I saw that girl from my trailer the night before you healed her. She was gazing up at the Ferris wheel in her little cart like there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to run past that line of people and hop on the ride."

"Bob saw her and lifted her up and didn't charge her father for the ticket," Frank says quietly, thinking back on the evening. He had spent most of it with Gerard, smoking on the back of Brian's truck, gazing up at the stars.

Ray’s smile is gentle, and he nods his head. "He's a good man, his heart is in the right place."

Frank sighs, sitting back down. The trailer runs over a bump on the ground and rattles for a while; whoever's pulling the trailer behind him is speeding up, and Frank wonders if Brian is trying to catch up on lost time or if he just wants to get far away from Babylon as fast as their aged vehicles can bear to go.

"So. What happens now?" Frank asks, studying Ray's face.

"I guess that depends. Do you trust Ozzy's advice?"

"Can I afford not to? I mean, he practically told me that the whole world would get destroyed if someone -- if _I_ didn't stop Pete. And, I think I've seen it in my dreams, too. Like, sometimes I dream about this big explosion that tears the world apart, and it really scares me. It has to mean something, right?"

"I dunno, Frank. And I can't make the decisions for you."

Frank runs his hand through his hair, frustrated. "That's really fucking helpful, Ray."

"Sorry, man," Ray says. "Like I said, I can't choose for you, but I can give you my opinion. I think you should trust Ozzy on this. I mean, you both have the same dreams? And then you found that photograph of Pete in a trailer that's not supposed to even exist. And what about the message on the cave wall? I dunno, it all seems like too much to just be a freaky coincidence."

Frank buries his head in his hands and takes in a shuddering breath. "Great. How am I supposed to find this Pete, then?" _And when I find him, how the hell am I supposed to kill him?_

"Did Ozzy say anything?"

Frank racks his brain while trying not to give into his nerves. "Uh, he said something about a dog and a wolf howling at the moon? That Pete would be there. Whatever that means."

Ray just looks confused, which shouldn't make Frank's stomach drop with disappointment, but does anyway. "I'll have to think about that," he says, turning back to his books. "Don't worry," he adds, "we'll figure it out. And if you and Pete's destinies are linked together, I have a feeling you'll meet him whether you want to or not."

"Great. That's just fucking great," Frank grumbles. "I never asked for this, you know. Any of it. Mama always said I needed to have more faith, she did everything she could to raise me into a good, God fearing Catholic, but I never believed in God or Heaven, or the Devil. I still don't."

Ray smiles softly, his eyes full of intent. "Even if you don't believe in God, God seems to believe in you."

 

\--

 

William Beckett is standing by the window in the living room when Pete walks downstairs, gazing out into the yard. He's spent the night in the house by Ashlee's request, since the journey back home would have been too strenuous to take in the late evening, and William had expressed his interest in spending some time ''in the countryside''.

He'd been painfully interested to hear what had happened to Pete in the days that he'd been missing, prompting him to tell his story every chance he got, but Pete had been hesitant about telling him anything that he could take with him and broadcast on the radio.

"Pete, you're up," Ashlee says, taking her eyes off the paper. There's a cup of coffee on the table in front of her and a half-eaten Madeleine on a plate next to the cup.

"Hello Ash, William," Pete says, his hand instinctively going to his throat, checking that no patch of skin is showing under his shirt. Getting up in the morning, a part of him had expected the tattoo to have disappeared during the night, but it was still there when he checked himself in the mirror, and it didn't scrub off in the shower afterwards.

"I was just admiring the trees in your yard. Tell me, are they really cherry trees? I'm surprised anything grows so well in these conditions. What's your secret?"

"My secret?" Pete squeaks, his hand flying up to his throat.

"We've never had any trouble keeping plants alive," Ashlee jumps in, smiling brightly at William. "Droughts have never plagued our little home, they've just traveled straight past us."

"What an odd thing to say," William says, looking at her with profound interest.

"God has blessed us with green thumbs," Pete interjects, sitting down on the armchair.

"Apparently a handful of them," William laughs, and Ashlee says, "Amen," throwing her hands up in the air.

Hayley's prepared lunch and they eat it in the dining room with Joe in a wheel chair at the head of the table, a napkin stuffed in his collar while Ashlee feeds him soft potato mash and gravy and Pete tries to ignore the evil looks Joe’s sending his way.

William spends the whole lunch wheedling Pete into doing the radio show, claiming that his popularity as a preacher would skyrocket with even just one single speech delivered through the radio waves.

"Besides, you already agreed to do it," he reminds, pointing his fork at Pete in an accusing manner.

"Fine," Pete sighs. And it’s true, he has nothing to lose, and William has a point, he can reach out to more people that way.

"Excellent," William throws the fork onto his plate and wipes his hands on his trousers before going to shake Pete's hand.

Ashlee claps her hands together, her excited face pressing into Joe’s neck as she pulls him in for a hug.

On the next day they're already driving down to William's radio station, the windows rolled all the way down for comfort due to the scorching heat.

"Don't worry," Ashlee says when they're stepping inside the building, holding Pete's hand for comfort. "It's a little scary at first but you're a wonderful speaker, it'll go so well. Just remember to keep your mouth at a distance to the microphone, otherwise it'll let out this awful noise."

"Ash, come on, you're the one that's making me nervous," Pete says, pulling her hands away from his hair when she starts fluffing it up. "Just, go sit with William and I'll be right up. I just need a minute to collect my thoughts, okay?"

William comes to fetch him after a short while. "Ready for the big event? I'm telling ya, this'll do wonders to your reputation. Just watch, soon the whole country will be talking about Brother Peter."

"Suddenly I'm reminded of the phrase 'making a deal with the devil.'"

"Come on, I'm not that bad."

"No. You're not," Pete says, walking into the studio.

As Pete starts to talk it's almost like he falls into a trance. His voice sounds distant and muffled in his own ears, white background noise. Instead, without even thinking, he finds himself reaching out to his listeners on a more personal level.

He tells Margaret that her baby will die of dust pneumonia if she doesn't get the cracks in her windows fixed, and to Jackson that his neighbor has been stealing from his crop for months, and he has to put an end to it unless he wants to become the laughing stock of the whole neighborhood.

He tells Sally and Ben and Alex that he'll be their savior, as long as they go out and spread his word.

It smells like coffee and mint lozenges in the studio, but the crows circling outside the windows catch Pete's attention.

"Amazing," William says afterwards, shaking Pete's hand. "Green thumbs aside, God really has gifted you with the talent of words."

"I was okay," Pete says, distracted. One of the crows is flapping its wings just outside the window and looking at Pete with its black, beady eyes.

"And modest, too!" William exclaims, tongue in cheek.

The crows follow Pete and Ashlee home, flying in a straight line behind the car. Pete keeps glancing at them in the front mirror while driving, gripping the steering wheel hard, his knuckles turning white.

One of the black birds whooshes past the window and soars into the cornfield by the roadside, landing on the arm of a huge, wilted tree that's sitting on top of a gentle slope. Pete slams the brakes so fast that Ashlee cries out in the back seat.

"Pete? What was that? Pete? What're you doing?"

Pete feels his way out of the car without taking his eyes off the tree, and after finding his footing he takes off running towards it, ignoring Ashlee's yells of protest behind him.

The crow greets him with a loud caw, then spreads its wings with a rustle of feathers and jumps off the branch, flying away.

It's like the tree on his chest but better, like he's found the inspiration to the piece, and he can't tear his eyes away from it: the curling black branches, the oddly twisted, strong trunk and roots that could reach out to the center of the world all the way to its core.

He reaches out his hand, running his fingers over the black bark and abruptly the sky goes dark. The wind picks up and clouds shift restlessly overhead, in a flash of light the tree bursts into flames. On the other side of the tree stands the man he's been dreaming about, _Frank_ , but this time he isn't running away. With his fierce and focused eyes and tensed posture, he reminds Pete of a rattlesnake, biding his time for the perfect moment to strike. He's clutching a small dagger in his fist, the blade gleaming in the light of the fire. And Pete knows, he just knows this man will come after him, that their paths will cross very soon. He can’t wait.

"Pete? Pete! What is it?" Ashlee sounds out of breath and irritated when she gets on top of the slope. She glares at Pete, leaning onto her thighs.

Pete looks around, the sky's gone back to the mundane, cloudless blue, there isn't a trace of the man in sight and the tree isn't even scorched anymore. Looking back at Ashlee panting and glaring daggers at him, Pete struggles to keep a straight face.

"Oh, shut up," she says with a scowl.

"Ash, what is this place? How come I never noticed it before?"

Ashlee shrugs, eyeing at the tree like it's the ugliest son of a bitch she’s ever seen. "It's just an old tree."

"No, there's something more to it, I can feel it."

"Like what?"

Pete turns to gaze at the valley that spans the area on the other side of the slope, overwhelmed by his emotions. It's almost as if a part of him, this new, exciting, mysterious part, has come home.

"Ash," he says with a voice he barely recognizes as his own. "This is where I will build my temple."

Ashlee lets out a startled laugh. "Your -- your _temple_ , Pete?"

"What's so funny about that? My people need a place of worship."

Ashlee looks doubtful. "We have a perfectly good church already, or have you forgotten? I mean, at first I had my doubts, it _was_ a whorehouse, but. It turned out all right in the end. Better than. The work we put into it…"

"It won't be big enough much longer," Pete says. "People are coming, sister. Hoards of them. Tens of thousands. Chin's is already cracking at the seams. Once word about me starts to spread, everyone will want to meet me in person, to hear me talk, shake my hand." _And worship me_ , he adds in his head with a sick sense of pride.

"And how do you know people will come? God tell you that, too?"

"You sound skeptical, Ash. You know that is not the way of a true believer."

"You're insane," Ashlee hisses. "Listen to yourself. You're despotic. What happened to you? You know what? Whatever. I'm going back to Chin's, you do whatever you want."

"Chin's," Pete murmurs, watching the sharp ripple of shoulder blades on Ashlee's retreating back. "I hope it burns to the ground."

 

\--

 

In the early hours of the afternoon the trucks finally come to a halt. Frank can't imagine anything better than the breath of fresh air that hits his face when he opens the door. He was shaken awake at daybreak after another one of his dreams. He'd been screaming again, Ray told him with wide, scared eyes, his hair an even bigger, messier ball of fluff on his head than usual. He'd been thrown into the battlefield, soldiers all around him running for cover as explosions started to tear apart the ground. He was running so fast his lungs burned, but he couldn't escape. A strong explosion threw him back against the trunk of a tree, and when he opened his eyes, he realized his legs had been blown off by the bomb.

After getting coffee from Butcher, Frank sits by an empty table and takes in his surroundings. The rousties are just starting to set up the tents, get the booths assembled, under Brian and Bert’s supervision. Bob's sitting with Tegan on the steps to her trailer with a hand on her shoulder; she's wringing a blue hankie, occasionally running it through her fingers and dapping the corners of her eyes with it.

"She had a rough night," Lindsey says, taking a seat opposite to Frank. She sets her own coffee on the table and clasps her hands, looking into Frank's eyes.

"Sara?" Frank asks, and she hums, smiling softly at him.

"You don't look all that great, either. What's with the dark circles underneath those pretty eyes of yours?" She reaches out to brush her thumb under his eye and then takes his hand into hers, holding it between her warm palms.

"I guess I haven't been sleeping all that well lately," Frank says, looking down at their hands. "I can't seem to get over these dreams I have."

''Honey, everyone has bad dreams. It's the times we live in, it’s hard to be happy. It's hard to feel safe," Lindsey says, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. But these aren’t normal nightmares, Frank wants to say. They feel too real to be just bad dreams.

It's the first time since Sara's death that both carnivals open doors for business. The atmosphere is subdued and tense, and Frank finds himself having nothing to do, even Bob seems to have lost his fire in bossing him around.

The cooch show is a no-go for the time being, but Frank's not sure they'll ever be able to have another show after what happened. "Baby steps," Bert tells him like he knows what he's talking about, but Frank still has to wonder.

When the evening rolls around, Gerard finds him wandering amongst the townies and pulls him aside.

"Aren't you supposed to be giving readings?" Frank asks, nudging him with his elbow. Gerard's trying to give him a wretched look, but quickly his smile slips free.

"Small turnout, I guess. Brian gave me and Mikey the rest of the night off," he beams.

"And you wanted to spend it with me?" Frank grins big, feeling like a hundred bucks.

"Well you did promise me some of your time," Gerard reminds him, grabbing Frank's fingers and squeezing them tight. Frank nods, smiling down at their hands. Gerard's hands are soft, pale and surprisingly clean. Frank tries not to feel embarrassed about the dirt under his fingernails and the rough calluses on his fingers and palms.

They walk around for a while, checking the crowds. Gerard's mostly doing the talking, telling Frank stories from the road.

When the air starts to cool, Frank fishes a nickel from his pocket and flicks it at Dan who hands him a fluffy white cloud of cotton candy in return with a wink and a sly smile that makes Frank's cheeks burn hot.

He eats the fluff with Gerard on the back of Brian's truck, swinging his legs in the air. Tegan's playing records in her trailer and the music drifts outside from the open window, mixing with sharp yells and children's laughter. Maja's gathering a crowd, juggling a couple of burning, bottle-shaped torches in the air. Lindsey's been looming in the background, but when Maja drops the last torch on the ground, she steps up to Maja's side, takes a swig of mescal from the bottle she's been emptying at a steady pace all evening and blows a ball of fire at the men wolf-whistling her. She’s a dragon, Frank thinks. Beautiful and strong and a little bit terrifying.

Frank presses his head to the crook of Gerard's neck and closes his eyes, allowing himself to be swept away, lulled by the different noises and smells of the carnival.

Gerard's finally stopped talking. Hesitating, he leans his jaw on the crown of Frank's head and squeezes his shoulder, then inches his fingers up along Frank's shoulder and starts playing with the strands of hair curling on his neck and behind his ear.

"God," he murmurs when the evening grows dark and thousands of lights go on at once, illuminating the space. "Sometimes I hate this life with everything I have, all the crap that goes on, sometimes it just gets to me, like there's just too much shit to handle. But then --"

"But then it also gives you moments like this," Frank says, voice mellow, looking up at him. A squeeze on his upper arm and he's pulled even closer, held a little tighter.

"And I realize this is where I belong," Gerard murmurs, his mouth pressed to Frank's hair. "I can't imagine anything that could ever make me leave."

Frank heaves a sigh and wonders if he'll ever begin to feel that way.

"Can I read your cards," Gerard says, giving Frank a nudge.

"Um," Frank hesitates, detaching himself from Gerard's side. He's not too sure he wants a repeat of the last reading; it had creeped him out more than he's willing to admit. "I dunno, I mean. I don't really have that great experiences with card reading..." he trails off, worrying his lip with his teeth.

"Okay, I admit that the last time didn't really go as well as I'd hoped, but I think you should give it another shot. Maybe your future looks brighter than your past. Actually, I'm sure it does," Gerard says desperately, like he really needs to believe it's true.

Frank's stomach does a nervous swoop, and he realizes with a start that his hands are shaking.

"Okay," he breathes out in the end. _They're just cards_ , he thinks, _they can't hurt me_. And he has questions to ask; maybe Gerard's cards will give him the answers he's been looking for.

"Okay?" Gerard asks with apprehension, giving Frank a worried look.

"Why not," Frank answers, attempting a reassuring smile, which falls short when even his lips begin to tremble.

"Frank --"

"I'm sure. I'm really, really sure. It's just. I'm just a little nervous," he admits.

"You have nothing to worry about." Gerard looks and sounds so reassuring that Frank can’t help but feel more at ease already.

He pulls out a deck of cards from the hidden breast pocket of his jeans jacket, holding them out for Frank to look at. These aren't the ones that told him about his past. They're smaller and thinner, not as boastful or well kept but friendlier to look at, and in a way more intimate, easier to control. "They're just cards," Gerard echoes Frank's thoughts. "Whatever they tell us, it doesn't mean it'll actually happen to you. You're the one in control of your life, not a deck of cards. At the most, they can give you guidelines, a nudge in the right direction. But that's all. Okay?"

Frank nods, feeling a lot better from his words.

He studies the way Gerard shuffles the cards, his sure, easy movements, the faster-than-thought flick of his fingers that shuffle the cards before folding around the deck.

He spreads out the cards into a fan and says, "Pick three."

"Last time you picked them," Frank points out but extracts three cards anyway, holding them out for Gerard.

"We're doing things a little differently this time," Gerard says, putting the incomplete deck out of the way. He takes the three cards that Frank picked out and places them belly down on the bed between their thighs.

"The Tower reversed," he says, looking at the first card. "The Tower means sudden change. Disruption and downfall when it's the right way around, but reversed it means accomplishment and success."

"Well I'm glad it wasn't the right way around, then," Frank says, kind of feeling like he's just dodged a bullet there.

"See? It's not all bad," Gerard smiles in a bona fide fashion, flipping the middle card around, studying it with interest. "Judgment," he says, and a quiet feeling of dread starts creeping back up Frank's spine.

"Well that can't be good."

"Oh, no, it's nothing to worry about. It just means renewal and rebirth. Do you think you could be starting to accept your power? Come to terms with it?"

Frank considers it, looking down at the card. "I guess," he says, and adds more confidently, "Yeah, yeah, I think I am."

"That's awesome," Gerard beams, reaching out to squeeze Frank's hand.

When the last card gets flipped over, a film of images starts flashing in Frank's eyes with so much force that it knocks him down.

"Frank? Frank, talk to me," Gerard says, trying to detach Frank's hands from his face. The images are still coming, but slower now, almost slow enough to make sense of them. The minister is there, standing next to a black, sturdy-branched tree on fire. He sees rocky hills and a green valley, the moon big and white and cold. A large black dog is walking down the valley, snuffling at the ground, and somewhere in the distance thick-furred gray wolves lift their heads up to the moon in a booming howl.

"Frank? Are you alright?" Gerard's voice sounds distant and muffled like they're both under water, but when the torrent of images stops, his ears pop and for a while everything is too loud and raw.

"What happened?" Frank asks dumbly, his scalp's aching from where he was tearing out his hair.

"Jesus, Frank! I thought you were having a seizure. You almost gave me a fucking heart attack."

"Sorry," Frank says sheepishly and pushes up from the bed. "It was nothing."

"Ha, yeah right. Didn't look like nothing to me."

"Can we just forget it? I wanna know what my last card is all about," Frank says, hoping that Gerard will just leave it for now, ignoring the fast pulse beating against his eardrums.

"You got the Ace of Swords," Gerard says warily, still eyeing Frank like he's afraid he's gonna combust in flames or something.

"What is it?"

"It means both clarity and focus. You're gonna have to focus on the issues at hand and make your stand, there's no room for excuses anymore."

Well, sure, what else would he get. "Great."

"You sure you're okay?" Gerard asks, reaching out to cup Frank's knee. "They're just cards, they don't have to mean anything."

"Says the carnival card reader," Frank cracks a smile.

" _Frank_ ," Gerard says, still frowning, but Frank doesn't get a chance to reply because there's a loud crash, metal colliding against metal, and a blood-chilling scream.

"Shit, come on," Gerard takes Frank's hand and yanks him down the truck. They run towards the gathering crowd just under the Ferris wheel, Gerard pulling him through the tight mass of people until they face a wailing woman in the center, crouching over a small girl. She's clutching her hands and calling out to her, but the girl stays perfectly still.

"Is she?" Frank breathes out, holding Gerard's hand so tight he might be crushing his bones.

Gerard glances at him and then kneels down, placing his hand on the girl's neck. "I can't feel a pulse," he says and the woman just cries harder.

Frank's legs wobble and he hunkers down next to Gerard, not able to take his eyes off the little girl.

When Brian and Bert come to check out the hubbub, the crowd starts to dissipate. It's almost closing time so most of the townies just shake their heads and leave, muttering quietly to themselves.

"What the hell happened?" Brian demands. He swipes his face with his hand, his thumb and forefinger drawing a line across his closed eyelids. Bob sits down onto the platform and sighs, looking very old.

"The safety rail came off and the girl... fell."

"That's just goddamn fucking great," Brian snipes. "Someone does a sloppy job and the next thing I know I have a dead child on my hands."

"It's no one's fault," Bob says, and the girl's mother lets out a watery sound. "I checked the wheel myself when it was assembled, everything was fine."

"Well something fucking happened! Otherwise there wouldn't be a motherfucking _dead girl_ under the Ferris wheel."

"Calm down," Bert hisses, eyeing the mother with concern. She's started chanting, “Why her? Why my baby girl? Why, God, why?” while rocking her child in her arms.

"Listen," Frank says, scooting closer to her. "Hey, listen. I can -- I could bring her back," he whispers, blood pounding fast in his ears.

"Wh-what?" she stutters with wet, wide eyes.

"If you could, would you give your life to her? If that'd save her? If that'd bring her back?"

"Yes," she answers without a beat. "You don't even have to -- She's my everything. I don't know if I can live without her."

"Frank?" Gerard asks, searching Frank's eyes.

"I can help them," Frank says with so much determination he hardly recognizes his own voice. "I can help you," he tells the woman. A strange calmness has started blooming in his chest and he feels it spreading all through his body.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yes. I'm sure. I can do this." He turns to the woman. "You can't have your kid back, I'm sorry but that's something I can't fix. But you can give your life to her, she'll still have a chance to grow up and have a future, just. You won't be there to see it."

The woman gives a wistful, watery smile and nods her head, taking Frank's hands into hers. "Is that possible? Oh, please, please do whatever you can to save her, my baby."

Frank searches her eyes and smiles, nodding his head and giving her hands a reassuring squeeze. "Gerard, stand back," he warns, glancing at his worried face. "All of you, get back."

Gerard sighs and gets up from the ground, nudging at Brian and Bob to give Frank some space. Bert looks confused but trails behind them anyway, kicking at the dirt with the balls of his feet.

Frank looks over his shoulder, giving Gerard a brief smile before he turns back to the mother and her child. He puts his right hand on the girl's chest over her heart, his left hand still holding the mother's. He looks at her one last time, her hopeful face the last thing he sees before his eyes slip closed.

The first surge of energy always hits him the hardest. It knocks his breath away, makes his chest hurt and his hands shake. He thinks about his cards while the energy flows through him, but it's the memory of Gerard's voice that finally helps him relax. “You need to make a stand,” he'd said. There's no room for excuses anymore.

"What in the name of," Brian says in wonder, backing away from the girl when she rolls her head to the side, her long eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks before she opens her eyes. Frank's panting and shaking, breaking into a cold sweat.

"He did it," Gerard breathes out, sounding awe-struck and a little bit terrified. "He fucking did it."

"So the crippled girl was telling the truth," Brian breathes out, eyeing Frank as he stumbles back a little, trying to find his balance. Bert whistles, raising his eyebrows.

"You fucking cured her! Which is amazing, but it makes me wonder what the hell else you've been keeping from us."

"Brian, now's not the time. Give the guy some space." Somewhere in his fevered haze Frank's surprised to hear Bob's voice defending him. "He looks like he's gonna croak."

"God, Frank? Are you alright?" Gerard jumpstarts into motion, kneeling down next to Frank, starting to fuss over him. He gently detaches Frank's hands from the woman's death grip and wraps his arm around his shoulders, steadying him. Frank garbles out something vague and stupid, and smushes his nose into Gerard's shoulder.

Gerard gives his arm a reassuring squeeze and then turns to the drowsy girl. "Hi, darling," he whispers, "you wanna go grab ice cream with Bob while we talk some boring adult stuff?"

The girl looks up at Bob and shrugs, holding her arms up in the air, waiting to get picked up.

"We'll go find Dan," Bob says, hoisting the girl up in his arms. "And eat so much ice cream that it'll ooze outta our ears."

"Isn't mommy coming?" the girl asks, and Frank thinks he's gonna throw up.

"Mommy's...sleeping," Bob says evasively, giving Brian a helpless look.

"I guess I'll go find out if she has any family here. And someone has to move the body," Brian adds, giving Bert a pointed look. Bert sighs but nods his head, walking away from the scene.

Brian casts a final glance at Frank, flashing him a weak smile before taking off, plucking out a cigarette from behind his ear and placing it between his lips.

Gerard supports Frank as they stagger up from the ground. "Do you need to lie down?"

Frank shakes his head. "I think I just want to go somewhere quiet. The speed news spread around here... I just can't handle being with anyone right now. Except you," he adds, already glancing over his shoulder to check if anyone's noticed them but at the same time making sure he doesn't look too closely at the dead mother on the ground.

"Okay, yeah, we can do that," Gerard says and starts steering him away from the scene. They walk past the tents all the way to the edge of the carnival, towards a beat-up Sedan that's parked next to an empty popcorn stand, one step at a time. He opens the door and waits for Frank to clamber into the back before climbing in next to him and pulling the door closed.

"Whose car is this?" Frank asks, pressing his cheek against the cool leather.

"Don't worry, it's one of ours," Gerard reassures him. He reaches out to the front and grabs a pack of Marlboros from behind the gearshift. "Want one?"

Frank nods and then fishes his matchbox from his pocket, shakes one out and lights up their smokes. "Thanks."

Gerard shrugs, rolling down his window, and takes a long drag from his cigarette.

"You did a good thing back there. A real good thing," he says wistfully, smoke gushing out of his mouth.

Frank stares down at the cig between his fingers; ash flakes swirl in the breath of air.

"Frank, look at me. You saved that little girl's life."

"I wouldn't have done it if her mom hadn't looked so desperate. Even if the girl gets to live now, someone's still dead. I don't get how anyone can call that a gift."

"You gave her a choice." Gerard bumps his arm softly with his knuckles and lifts Frank's chin up. "Oh Frankie," he murmurs, brushing his cheek with his thumb. He leans down and presses a kiss on Frank's face, just above his upper lip, the sting of his Marlboro breath itches Frank's nose.

Frank's eyes flutter as he concentrates on the feel of Gerard's mouth so close to his. He turns his head just enough for their lips to brush, dry and chapped but soft at the same time. They move slowly together, Gerard’s fingers caressing under his ear, and when Gerard pulls away, Frank replaces Gee's mouth with his half-burnt cigarette and can't help but crack a smile at his knees. Strangely, his world doesn’t look quite as dim as it did before, and he realizes he’s just saved a little girl’s life. It makes him feel powerful; makes him feel like he matters.

Gerard dips his own cigarette between his lips, inhales, and then flicks the stub out of the window. "That was nice," he muses, like he's commenting on a good meal.

"Hey, do you see me complaining," Frank says, raising his eyebrows. He still doesn’t feel completely like himself, but he thinks he’s getting there. Gerard’s presence is helping to soothe him, to see things in a different light.

"Wouldn't hurt to add a little tongue next time," Gerard jokes and Frank burst into a soft, genuine laugh.

"Next time? There's gonna be a next time?"

"Well, I kinda hoped there'd be," Gerard says fondly, giving Frank a crooked smile.

Frank licks his lips and stubs out his cigarette on the leather upholster, throwing it out the open window, then leans in to kiss Gerard again.

Gerard tastes like coffee and smoke: bitter, but his mouth is soft and warm. Frank thinks he'll never want to stop kissing him now. Their noses bump and Frank bites at Gerard’s lip, tugging it into his mouth, while Gerard cups his hip, spanning Frank’s back with his free hand. Frank roams his chest and belly, pushing into the soft skin there, then slips his hand under Gerard's shirt, palming his warm skin.

"Wait. Frank," Gerard starts, pulling out of the kiss. "What're we doing?"

"I think we're finally having our dance," Frank smiles dazedly, thinking back at the night in the bar, but sits back when he notices the frown drawing Gerard's brows together. "Gee?"

Gerard worries his lip, motioning between them. "I just -- What is this? We never really discussed this before."

Frank blinks. "No, but I thought things were implied," he says with a frown of his own. "What's the matter? I thought we were on the same page."

"I just. I don't know what you want -- what you're expecting from me."

Frank rakes a hand through his matted hair, confused and a little bit hurt. Just a moment ago they were kissing, and Gerard had thought it was nice.

"I want us to have what we've always had? But also more. Like, now that I've kissed you I definitely want more of that. The kissing was great," Frank tries to explain. He can't help but feel a little cornered. "Look, I just. I wanna be with you."

"Oh," Gerard breathes out, looking so relieved. "Okay, then. I wanna be with you too."

Frank blinks. "Okay. Then what's the problem?"

"No problem really. I just wanted to make sure I'm not like, using you when you’ve just been through so much, when you’re so vulnerable. I mean, I thought you liked me, but usually I'm really bad at reading people when it comes to stuff like this," Gerard rambles, a blush spreading out along his neck.

"First of all, fuck you for saying I’m vulnerable," Frank huffs, but he feels stupidly giddy, the pressure in his chest easing up. "Secondly, Gee, you read people for a living, you gotta see the irony in that."

"It's not the same," Gerard shakes his head and pulls Frank in, hooking his leg over Frank's thigh. "It's just not the same."

"Uh huh," Frank says, ducking in to press a kiss to Gerard's chin. "Whatever you say."

"Hey, come here," Gerard grins, tugging Frank snug against his chest. He scoops in for a new kiss, licking Frank's lip as their noses bump. Gerard smells like old sweat and his cigarettes, and Frank brushes his hands through his short white hair.

There's a yell outside that startles Frank and he pulls back. Gerard shushes him, following him to his seat. "It was probably just Brian barking someone's head off, no one knows we're here."

"Sorry, I just really don't want to deal with anyone right now," Frank says, taking a nervous glance out over the backseat.

"I know, you said that," Gerard replies, pressing his face in the crook of Frank's neck. "And I told you not to worry, no one'll know we're here."

"What, is the car cloaked in some magical veil or something?"

"No," Gerard's laugh vibrates on his skin. "It's just that we're hidden behind all these tents and trailers, and you know how busy everyone is during the opening night. Besides, there's that stuff with the girl and her mom, no one'll have time to miss us."

"Okay," Frank says, nosing Gerard's forehead, trying not to think about what’s happening outside the car right now, but still hoping that the girl is all right. "I was being stupid."

"Nah, I get it. If I were you I wouldn't wanna answer anyone's questions either."

"I just wanna stay here for a while," Frank explains. He nudges at Gerard and lies down on the seat, then pulls Gerard back by his shirt, satisfied only when Gerard's settled back on his chest, that nice, heavy weight holding him down.

"That's good, because I wasn't planning on moving any time soon."

"Works with me."

Gerard feels around until he finds Frank's hand. He gives it a tight squeeze and rests the knot of their fingers on Frank's chest, softly kissing his knuckles. They stay like that for a while, just holding each other and sharing the same air.

The clouds shift when Frank's slipping Gerard's shirt over his head, and there's a loud rumble in the sky.

Gerard stumbles with the clasps of Frank's dungarees, flustered, and it brings Frank into a fit of giggles.

"What the hell?" Gerard grumbles, pulling at the strap. "How is this more difficult to open than a bra?"

Frank hooks his leg over the back of Gerard's thigh and presses his grin into the backrest.

"You think it's funny?" Gerard exasperates, pulling Frank to him by the straps. "You think this is fucking funny? I'll fucking show you funny!” He digs his fingers into Frank's sides where Frank's the most sensitive.

"Oh god, stop it," Frank giggles, squirming and trashing, trying to break free from Gerard's hold while shaking with laughter. "You fucker! Oh my god, seriously!"

Gerard almost gets punched in the eye during a particularly terrible tickle, and he lets go, sitting back and waiting for Frank catch his breath, a sly smile spreading on his face.

Frank snorts and lies down on the seat, spearing his hand through his hair, his face wet from sweat and tears of laughter. "Jeez," he says, looking up at Gerard who's grinning wolfishly, kneeling between Frank's thighs.

"Now that we got that outta the way, you wanna help me out with these?" Gerard wiggles his eyebrows, pulling at a clasp.

"After that I should probably make you suffer, but I don't really feel like it," Frank chuckles, kicking off his shoes and slinking out of his dungarees, getting his undershirt off as an afterthought. Then Gerard's kissing him all hot and heavy, running his palm down Frank's side and cupping his thigh, pressing softly at Frank's skin.

And Frank's been so into this ever since their first kiss. He can't get enough of Gerard kissing him. Gerard pressed so close to him, Gerard's skin and mouth and attention all for him now. And he realizes he's wanted this so much ever since the first night Gerard sought him out and showed him the beauty of the carnival that he's practically shaking with want and need now.

Frank breaks the kiss with a moan, and just looks at Gerard, his lips and eyes and the pink of his cheeks. "Gee," he breathes out, pushing up with his hips, winding his leg over the back of Gerard's thigh. He grabs a hold of Gerard's shirt and struggles it over his head, Gerard's arm almost colliding with his jaw in the process. As soon as the shirt is gone, Gerard starts mouthing at Frank's collarbone, his hand sliding up and down Frank's thigh comfortingly, humming a reply into the ball of Frank's shoulder.

Gerard's skin is soft on his back and slick with sweat, the sudden humidity in the air's already gotten to him. He slips his hand down the small of his back where the sweat is pooling, and under the waist of Gerard's jeans, palming the slope of his ass.

Rain starts to lash at the car and trickle inside through the open window, slicking up the black leather. Frank's head lolls to the side and he scrabbles at Gerard's back, feeling his spine undulate under his skin.

"Fuck, fuck, Frankie, can you?" Gerard says breaking through the haze Frank's fallen in. Frank blinks dumbly up at Gerard as he pulls back and starts yanking at his arm that's stuck under Frank’s back while struggling to get his jeans down his hips with his free hand.

Frank lifts up and Gerard gets his hand back, then tries to help him with the jeans, although he thinks he might just be making it more difficult for him.

He lets Gerard cup his dick through his underwear for a while, but soon gets frustrated, just needing to feel Gerard’s skin against his own, only satisfied when they're both naked. And all of a sudden the car is too small and hot, the air thick and heavy in his lungs, but Frank hardly notices, all that matters is Gerard holding him, pressing him down, kissing him with everything he has.

And then it's so good, so great Frank can't keep still, his hips rutting up in a messy rhythm, belly swooping and fluttering, a string of whimpers pouring out of his mouth. His dick is tucked snug against the cut of Gerard's hip, getting sweetly rubbed while Gerard moves over him in a messy rhythm of his own.

But he's not there yet, not quite. "Fuck, I need --" he groans, pushing up and rolling them over, admiring the pale of Gerard's skin and hair against the black leather of the seat, storing the image into his memory.

"Christ," Gerard says brokenly when Frank presses down, his dick sweeping wet against Gerard's. Gerard scrambles to help the slide, cupping him and Frank in his hand, running his palm along the slick skin. And it's so hot, so fucking hot Frank has to squeeze his eyes closed and bite at his lip to keep from completely breaking apart.

And then Gerard does something with his hand that's just _unfair_ and Frank's coming with a sharp cry, his whole body shaking with it. And it triggers Gerard's climax, his hips jutting and eyes slipping shut, his whole body flush and strung tight. Frank struggles to hold himself up until Gerard's coming down, and boneless, he crumbles on Gerard's chest, pressing his mouth to the crook of Gerard's neck in a sleepy kiss.

They lie together in a companionable silence for what feels like hours, stealing kisses and light touches and listening to the sounds carrying in through the open windows.

When it starts to get cold, Frank sits up and starts looking around for their clothes, locating Gerard's shirt before he gets distracted by the rain lashing against the car. "It's raining," he grins, reaching out the window to collect raindrops in the cup of his palm. Gerard has a hold of his ankle, like he's being anchored to his spot in the car by Gerard's side. "I can't remember the last time it rained."

"You wanna go check it out? 'Cause if you do, you need clothes for that," Gerard adds, driving his hand up along Frank's calf. "Unless you want Jimmy to make you his new crowd-puller."

"Spoilsport," Frank says, pulling back from the window. The sky is all dark gray tones, the occasional lightning flashing yellow and giving it character. They get dressed and climb out of the car, the first step in the muddy ground already seeping water into Frank's shoe.

"Good thing I put my socks in my pocket," he says as Gerard grabs his hand. "I hate wet socks."

"The sky looks fucking insane," Gerard says with his head cocked up, rainwater running down the column of his neck.

Frank grins at the sky, letting rain lash against his face and soak his hair.

There's a loud rumble, the next lightning striking all too close for comfort, and another one right afterwards, the ground flashing white. It gets scary really fast, all around them lightning bolts like the sky is aflame.

"Shit, Mikey" Gerard cries out, letting go of Frank's hand and taking off towards the clearing, water splashing and seeping into his pantlegs.

When Frank catches up with him, Gerard's fighting Bob, trying to bolt for the burning trailer. It takes a moment to realize whose trailer it is, and when he does, it's like a punch in the gut and he loses his breath. One moment he's standing there, helplessly watching as the brothers' trailer burns to the ground, and the next he's struggling against Brian and Bert, trying to break free so that he can run inside and get Mikey out.

"It's too late," Brian says, rain on his face running down like tears, but Gerard’s still yelling, "I can hear him! Let me go, I can fucking hear him screaming!"

The rain is dying away.

Frank's knees give out and he collapses to the ground, Brian still holding onto him by the back of his t-shirt. He wonders how it's possible for wet wood to burn so well. The flames lick at the frame of the trailer, yellow and orange, almost too bright to look at, as a cloud of fire bursts out from inside, breaking the windows and banging the door wide open.

" _Mikey_!" Gerard cries out, his voice so raw and grating, so full of agony and terror, that it's hard to listen to. "I can hear him, I can still hear him!"

Frank struggles one arm free but Bert quickly grabs it back, holding tightly onto him. " _Fuck!_ "

"Just die," Gerard cries, his shoulders trembling. "Why won't you fucking die!"

It's only after everything's quieted down that the troops rush back with buckets at full gallop, splashing water everywhere as they hurry to throw it at the already dying flames.

"You wanna go help them out?" Brian says to Frank, but it sounds more like a command than a question. Frank's finding it hard to take his eyes off of Gerard's quivering back, and no, he doesn't wanna help out, he wants to go to Gerard and hold him close until he stops shaking. But Bert's there with him already, his hand on the back of Gee's neck, letting him sob into his chest and cling to him with his full weight.

"Fine," Frank grits out, breaking away from Brian's tight grip. "Just -- fuck! Just make sure he's alright, okay?"

Brian gives him a dark look but doesn't say anything else, just nods his head and starts making his way to Gerard and Bert. Frank watches him kneeling down and putting his hand between Gerard's shoulders, the three of them all huddled together with Gerard in the middle.

 

\--

 

"Brother Peter. Brother Peter, wake up," someone jiggles his shoulder. Pete turns around onto his side and smushes his face into the pillow. " _Pete_ , you gotta wake up. There's been a fire. Our church's burnt down to a crisp."

"What?" Pete sits up, his legs tangled in the sheet. Hayley's standing by the bed, wringing her hands nervously, tears in her eyes. "What did you say?"

"Oh, it's awful, all those children..."

"Children? Wait," Pete rubs the heel of his hand against his eyes, trying to wake up. He feels unreasonably tired this morning, even though the sun's already high up in the blue, cloudless sky. When he thinks about the fire, he can almost feel the smoke in his nose, hear the helpless cries of the children. "The orphans? How -- how many?"

"Every single soul," Hayley breathes out, touching her lips with her fingertips.

Pete stumbles down the staircase, two stairs at a time while fumbling with his cassock that he's thrown over his pajamas in a haphazard hurry. He considers rushing out the door but his cracked lips and dust-dry mouth lead him into the kitchen instead.

Ashlee's standing by the kitchen sink, facing the window, her back to the door. A batch of her sleeveless, cream-colored shirt is damp and stuck to the middle of her back and her hair's a messy knot on her neck. She's running a wet sponge along her arm with meticulous care, from shoulder to wrist, trickles of water mixing with black dirt and rolling off her arm in rivulets, washing the dirt away.

"Ash?"

Her shoulders tense for a fraction of a second, and she clenches her hand into a tight fist around the sponge, a fountain of water flowing down her arm. She hastily rubs her arm clean of the dirt and turns to him, then grabs him into a tight hug. The long bone of her arm feels almost painful as it presses against the back of his neck. "Oh, Pete," she sighs.

"Ash? Ashlee, are you alright?" Pete asks, pushing her back a step to better see her face.

"I'm fine," she says, turning around towards the window, but Pete remains skeptical. She hugs her arms to her chest and says, with a tense shrug, "Why wouldn't I be?"

Pete blinks. "Did you hear about the fire?"

"What -- what fire?" her back tenses even more and she digs her nails into her upper arm, hard enough to leave scratches.

"Chin’s burned down last night. Hayley just told me about it. You didn't know?"

She turns around, shaken. "I just got in, I was working in the garden." She furrows her eyebrows, looking down at her hands. There are thick stripes of dirt under her fingernails and a surface cut circling one wristbone. "I -- I think I was working in the garden."

"Uh," Pete says, at a loss. Something about the fire and Ashlee's reactions to it jab at Pete's memory, like the answer to everything is just lurking beneath the surface, sitting at the tip of his tongue. "Well... I'm on my way to check out the damage. What I heard from Hayley, it looks like it's pretty bad."

"Sure. Of - of course. Do you need me there?" Ashlee asks, still studying her hands. She seems lost somehow, and like she hasn't really heard anything Pete's been telling her.

"Nah, I'll go by myself. You just take care of yourself."

"Okay," she says, worrying her lip. "Hey, Pete?" she adds when Pete's about to leave.

"Yeah? What is it, Ashlee?"

She looks at him for a while, an odd look on her face, then shakes her head, thinking better of it. "Nothing, never mind."

 

\--

 

Night falls over the carnival, shadows merging into a blanket of darkness.

The day after Mikey’s death had gone in a blur of sadness, everyone sitting quietly, buried in thoughts, trying to make sense of it all. Gerard hadn't come out of Bert's trailer all day, and he slept through the one brief visit Frank was allowed to make.

But on the next morning, Gerard is up early, lifting heavy props and carrying them with Lindsey into the main tent, his shirt already damp with sweat. Bob's eyeing them with disapproval, but not intervening, just letting them work.

Most of the rousties have settled down on the ground nearby, watching the scene while complaining about Lindsey -- a goddamn woman -- doing their job.

Brian, who's come to inspect the hold up, abruptly stops in his tracks when he notices the odd couple. "What's this all about?" he asks Bob, crossing his arms to his chest.

"They wanted to help," Bob shrugs, rubbing his wrist under the loose support strap. "I let them help."

"Help? But it's not their job," Brian says with a tired voice, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his pointer finger and thumb.

"They're doing a pretty good job, though. And they aren't constantly complaining like some people," Bob says and casts a pointed glare at the rousties.

"And why is the rest of the crew dicking around, not doing anything?"

Bob's face twists into an ugly scowl. "They felt like they couldn't work with a woman and a fortune teller. I guess they feel threatened now that they know they aren’t the only ones that can do this job."

"You feel that way, too?"

"Hell no, but I don't think Gerard should be doing anything right now. I'm worried he'll get himself or Lindsey injured."

Brian nods, watching them struggle a plastic horse out of the back of a truck. It's for the merry go round, the frame of it is already assembled, it's just lacking the animals.

He strides over to Gerard and grips his shoulder to get his attention.

"Hey, Gerard? Why don't you leave this one to the rousties. It's not really your job."

"I want to pull my weight," Gerard says with a tight voice, helping Lindsey place the horse on the ground next to the giraffe. The yellow paint is almost completely hugged off of the giraffe's neck, and there are white scratches on the tips of its ears. "Since I can't read cards anymore… I -- I need something to do. You know how I feel about freeloaders."

"Shit. Gerard. Give yourself some time, you just lost your brother."

Gerard's jaw goes tight, and his expression is angry and raw. "Don't you think I know that? I woke up this morning and I couldn't hear his voice -- it's so fucking quiet all the time now. He's not… I can't _hear_ him anymore." He blinks the sudden wetness from his eyes and wipes the tears on the back of his wrist.

Brian exhales heavily and nods, says he's sorry and that Gerard should do whatever feels best. Then, at a loss, just leaves him to it. Frank watches Gerard work for a while as he finishes his cigarette, then dusts his palms on the back of his dungarees and goes to give him and Lindsey a hand.

"Hey, Gee, you doing okay?" he asks, helping Gerard with another plastic horse. He feels like the world's biggest asshole when Gerard gives him a pained look, and struggles to find better words even though he has no idea what to say to him. He just needs to say something. "No, shit, I'm sorry. Of course you aren't. I wanted to be with you yesterday but Bert kind of shooed me away. I should have fought him. I just didn't wanna make noise and risk waking you up."

"You came to see me?"

"Well, yeah. Of course I did. Fuck, Gee. I'm so, so fucking sorry."

"For what? It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe if you hadn't been with me you would have had time to get him out. Before the fire grew too intense."

"Shut up, Frank," Lindsey says before Gerard has a chance to reply. "Thinking like that won't do anyone any good."

Gerard looks down, his mouth twisted in a tight downwards slope. "She's right," he says after a beat with a raspy, heavy voice. "I just, I think I wanna be alone," he adds, placing his half of the horse on the ground, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Well. That went well," Frank says, letting go of the horse's ass, not even flinching when it almost crushes his toes, missing them just by a hair’s breadth. Lindsey pats him on the back as they watch Gerard walking away. "Come on, babe," she says. "Let's get the rest of the stuff out."

The last item on the truck is a large mirror, its wooden frame cut in the shape of climbing plants. Frank lifts it alone with some difficulty, holding it at an arm's length while peering into it. When he was lifting it, he thinks he saw something moving in the mirror, a black shape, but it's gone now. It could have been just his own reflection, he thinks, but it still gives him the chills.

He spends the rest of the day alone in the supply trailer, which has manifested itself again at the very edge of the carnival. It's just as dusty and dank inside as he remembers, but it only adds to the grime and sweat he's already drenched in. There hadn't been a chance to a shower, most of the water tanks were emptied in the process of putting out the fire. A part of him had lived in the hope of bringing Mikey back until the very end, but when the smoke and flames finally cleared out, there wasn't much left of Mikey to restore.

He falls into a slumber sometime in the middle of the afternoon, and when he comes to, he realizes that the weight on his chest is a dusty, leather-jacketed book that he’s clutching in his arms.

He turns it around and lifts the cover, studying the front page. There's an inscription on the dirty-white page that he can't quite read, the handwriting looks old and shaky.

When he starts flicking through the pages, some paper clippings flutter down on the floor. They're all reviews of the carnival with small pictures above the articles depicting a younger, smiling Ozzy in a top hat, standing under bright, shining lights, or Ozzy being held up between two dancing girls, his arms around their bare shoulders, hand wrapped around a bottle of wine. "You old dog," Frank murmurs, shaking his head.

A brown photograph catches his eye, and he picks it up, studying the picture. His heart speeds up, and he almost drops the photo in his haste to get up. "Holy shit," he exhales, stumbling over his feet as he rushes to get out.

He finds Ray in his trailer, strumming his guitar with an air of absence that makes Frank wonder if he should be left alone. There are circles under his eyes and a smudge of soot on his cheek.

"Um, Ray," Frank says tentatively, looming in the doorway. Ray raises his head and looks around, frowning like he doesn't know where he is. He manages to snap out of his funk when his eyes settle on Frank.

"Frank? Come on in, what are you doing just standing in the doorway?"

"I found this photograph," Frank starts, mapping the scenery with his eyes, studying the animals in the picture and the huge full moon. It's almost exactly what Ozzy said to him: the place where the dog and the wolves howl at the moon. Pete would be there, waiting. "Can you tell me anything about it?"

Ray takes the photo and holds it close to his face, eyebrows drawing into another deep frown. "I know this place. We used to travel through the valley when we had shows in Hollywood, back when big city folk still got excited over us."

"I need to go there," Frank says without a smidgen of doubt. "I need to go there and get this thing over with."

Ray studies him with intent, his hair flopping when he nods his head. "Let me talk to Brian," he says, "I'll explain things to him the best I can."

When the night rolls around, Frank curls up on his old spot under Brian's truck, opposite to Bert's trailer, feeling exhausted and small, too far away from home, missing his mom. The light is still on in the trailer, and he stares at the black silhouette of Gerard smoking in the window with hunched shoulders and his head resting on his hand, as he drifts off to a dreamless sleep.

When he wakes up the next morning, Gerard is gone.

 

\--

 

As a new morning begins to give way to a scorching day, Pete walks in the valley among the half-erect tents, giving out blessings like Communion wafers for everyone who's come to help him set up his temporary church. He raises his eyes to the large tree on top of the hill, letting his gaze caress the thick, powerful branches. He'd named his tree as the Tree of Knowledge as it was the largest, most impressive-looking tree he'd ever laid his eyes on. Near it he felt like the Snake, looking down on all the people in the valley, all those people he'd already lured into following him here.

"We must move forward. Our eyes to the future," he'd said when men and women gathered around him outside of Chin’s, every soul drenched in pain and despair, faces and fingers still charcoal black from the fire.

On the ground by the scorched church hall the children were lined up under sooty gray blankets. Pete had chanced a look under one blanket but then quickly pulled away. The sight had been too much for him: the smell of burned skin and hair, all melted together, hair glued to the length of Polly Ann's cheek.

He'd stumbled his way back to the house, ignoring Ashlee downstairs -- now in her rocking chair with the radio on -- and ushering Hayley out of his room where she'd been folding laundry into his drawers.

In the late afternoon William Becket arrived. Alone in his room Pete had begun to remember things; they felt distant like a dream, but real enough that he knew they weren't just figments of his imagination. Ash seemed to remember bits and pieces too, judging by the uneasy way she acted near him.

When William had settled in the guest room for the night, she confronted Pete under the stairs, holding tightly onto the collar of his shirt as she hissed, "What in God's name did you _do_? All those children --"

Pete sneered, looking into her eyes. "Don't you mean what _you_ did?"

"You wanted this," she cried, pushing him away from her. "Not me."

"Ash, you're not seeing the big picture," Pete tried to justify. "Now that Chin’s is gone, I can start building my temple! It all worked out for the best."

"Sometimes I feel like I don't even know you," she replied, mouth twisted in an ugly scowl. "We're both going to Hell for this."

"There's a plan for everyone, Ash," Pete gritted out. "I'm special, I can feel it. I've been chosen to carry out something big and wonderful. I've had visions of a new and improved world, a world where people don't destroy themselves in God's name but in their own, a world without rules and regulations. I've seen how it could be. From me the new age of men begins. So what are a few casualties along the way? Our victory will just taste that much sweeter because of them."

"Do you even hear yourself? This is not you, Pete. It’s not," she said, astounded. "You make me sick to my stomach. I -- I can't be around you right now."

"Ash! Ash, wait," Pete yelled after her. He gripped her arm and spun her around. "Don't you dare walk away from me, Ash. I will make this world burn!"

In midday William visits the site, fascinated by the fast work people have put into making everything ready. He walks around with a tape recorder, occasionally describing the scenery to the small machine and sometimes shoving it to people's faces, asking them questions. "This is good stuff. Good stuff!" he keeps saying, grinning to himself.

Ashlee's also there, helping Hayley fix up sandwiches and coffee for the people, all earlier negativity forgotten, wiped out of her memory.

She’s looking at Hayley out of the corner of her eyes when William pulls her aside and they start talking, Hayley speaking in hushed tones and William looking more and more dubious as time passes, stealing glances at Ashlee on the sly when she starts to occupy herself with the sandwiches once more.

Pete’s been battling with his thoughts for so long he feels weary, a part of him disgusted at himself now that he realizes what he’s made Ashlee do, a bigger part trying to convince him things will all work out for the better in the end.

And surely Ashlee will be grateful when she sees how much good comes out of it all.

 

\--

 

It feels like ever since they reached Babylon, bad luck has started following the carnies around everywhere they go. One day Mikey's gone and a few days later Gerard disappears, leaving behind just a crumpled up note under a paper weight.

A part of Frank, an ugly, selfish part, feels angry, so angry at Gerard. Angry for not seeking him out to say goodbye, angry for not asking him to run away with him. Like he'd mean more to Gerard than the people he grew up with, the people he considers his family.

But he can't let it go, can’t let Gerard just disappear, not after everything they’ve been through. He needs to find him, needs to bring him back to the only family that he still has left.

"He was gone before we could even discuss Mikey's wake," Brian says, rubbing smudges on his forehead with his black fingers. He's been at the fire site again, sitting by the burned wood, the ashes from his cigarette snowing on the heap of charcoal.

"He's in denial. He couldn't handle losing his brother, so he left it all behind."

"Thanks for the insight," Frank says harshly, wanting to punch Bob so much he's shaking with it. "He shouldn't be alone right now. He can't be alone."

"And what exactly are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going after him," Frank states, pushing through the small gap between Brian and Bob.

"His note was very clear about us following him," Bob yells after him. "He just lost his fucking brother! He needs time to heal, even if it means being left alone. _Asshole_ ," he adds, for good measure.

"I don't fucking care," Frank says with a tight voice. "He can't just fucking wake up and decide to leave!"

He spots Jimmy sitting in his truck with the radio on, a bottle of pale yellow liquid hanging from his almost limp grip. Frank opens the door and yanks Jimmy out before he has time to protest, jumps in and switches on the ignition.

Jimmy sways on the spot, shaking his bottle in the air like an old bum. "Hey, fucker! Gerroff my car!"

"He needs us, we can't leave without him. I won't allow it."

Brian stares at Frank for a long while, weighing his options. Then he nods, his eyes sharp and serious. "I'll give you today and tomorrow. Tomorrow night we continue on, with or without you and him."

"Fine," Frank says, and hits the gas.

He drives around for hours, the air that swirls in through the rolled down windows pushes sand into his eyes and makes his lungs ache. The sun's scorching hot today, the sky devoid of clouds. When the night rolls around and his eyes feel too heavy to hold open, he parks the truck and takes a short nap, the vultures circling overhead even at night. He has a restless sleep, nightmares about Gerard haunting his dreams. He dreams about finding him walking down the road, but when he gets close enough to touch, Gerard turns into his pursuer, his chest bulking up and the now familiar tattoo taking shape on his skin. He gasps awake and leans his head on the steering wheel, blinking away the lingering dream, then continues driving, but with no real luck.

When he returns, Tegan meets him by main the road, running to him as soon as he gets out of the truck.

"Frank, oh Frank you have to come with me," she says, grabbing his hand in a tight grip.

"What's wrong?" Frank asks wearily. It's almost as if Gerard's vanished from the face of the earth, and right now Frank just wants to press his head down on a soft pillow, turn his back to the world and mourn for a while.

"It's Bob," Tegan swallows down a sob. "I just found him. He's really hurt."

And Frank's already dreading the worst. Things have gone so horribly wrong lately that he's running low on optimism. "What happened?" he croaks, taking off into a light jog, trying to keep up with her pace.

"The Ferris wheel death," Tegan says with a broken voice, dragging Frank further away from the carnival, towards a lonely tree in the distance. "The girl's father showed up with some of his friends. Real big guys."

She kneels down next to a black, dirty lump of a man on the ground, his whole body scorched by the hot, wet tar that's covering him from head to toe, hands tied behind his back and his face swollen and covered in blood.

"Jesus fucking Christ, that's. Bob? Holy shit," Frank stutters, hunkering down next to Bob's unconscious body. It feels like his breath has been knocked out of his chest and his head is swimming.

"You have to help him, Frank! I can't lose him too."

 

\--

 

All through the week new men and women have been pouring into the valley: mostly farmers and miners but even bankers, shopkeepers and doctors have abandoned their workplaces and homes and come to hear Pete's words.

The Temple of Jericho that Pete had jokingly dubbed during one of his talks with William would in time be built by the Tree of Knowledge, but for now the white tents that the Okies struggled to put up would have to serve the purpose.

Their new home stands on the top of the hill opposite to the Tree. It had belonged to a family of four until they offered to move into tents with the Okies so that Pete and his family could live closer to the valley.

Was there ever a time when he would have refused such an offer, Pete wonders, searching his conscience. But reason and logic are on his side this time. Joe needs a real bed and a roof over his head, and if nothing else, Pete can at least offer him those. And Ashlee's never been much of an outdoors person if she could have her way.

Hayley's been distancing herself from Ashlee and him lately, but silently studying them from afar and spending most of her time with Joe, claiming he's been starving for company ever since he started showing progress with his recovery. Sometimes Pete catches her regarding him or Ashlee with reserved looks, emitting nervous energy so thick and strong it radiates off her in waves.

"Listen, Pete, we need to talk," William says with the late afternoon sun in his eyes. He pulls Pete aside and leads him behind the main tent, finds a spot far enough from people that they can't be overheard.

"Now's not really a good time. I'm going to address my people as a group for the first time."

"I've talked to some townies. Pete, I say this to you as a friend. Ashlee's in trouble. People are whispering -- They're saying she somehow started the fire."

Pete glances over at Ashlee. She's standing by the river with Hayley, next to them a half-finished flowerbed, watering can and a shovel. Ashlee looks upset, and there's nothing friendly in Hayley's gestures. He closes his eyes and concentrates on Ashlee, trying to communicate to her, to comfort her and tell her she's not alone.

"You don't believe them, do you?" Pete asks, turning back to William.

"No, of course not, but I'm asking you to be careful. She's a great girl, I wouldn't want to see her lose her reputation, or something worse."

"Thanks, William. You don't have to worry though. God takes good care of my people. His people."

When Pete glimpses at the river again, Ashlee's standing with the shovel in her hands and Hayley's floating face down in the water, the current carrying her away from the shore and pressing her under the surface.

Ashlee notices him watching and drops the shovel to the ground, straightens her hair and wipes her hands on the hem of her dress, composing herself. She gives Pete a shaken look before walking away from the river.

"Everything's fine," he assures William, making sure William’s eyes don’t stray towards the river, that he doesn’t notice what’s just taken place. "We're all just carrying out our Mission."

"And what's your mission?" William asks, fumbling for his pen and notepad, all star-reporter-like.

"You'll find that out," Pete smiles tightly, thinking Hayley probably had it coming. "As soon as you let me deliver my sermon."

The crowd has already gathered inside the tent when Pete makes his entrance. He walks up to the stage in a rain of applause, resting his hands on the podium.

"The clock is ticking, brothers and sisters, counting down to Armageddon," he says, taking in the crowd. "The worm reveals himself in many guises across this once great land; from the intellectual elite cruelly indoctrinating our children with the savage blasphemy of Darwin, to the craven Hollywood pagans, corrupting them in the darkness of the local bijou, from the false prophets cowering behind our nation's pulpits to the vile parasites in our banks and boardrooms and the godless politicians, growing fat on the misery of their constituents."

Out of the corner of his eye Pete watches Joe’s slow movements as he reaches his hand inside his jacket, fumbling for something with the difficulty of an ill old man.

"The signs of the end times are all around us, etched in blood and fire by the left hand of God. You have but to open your eyes, brothers and sisters. The truth is that the Devil is here. The Anti-Christ, the Child of Lies, the Son of Darkness walks among us cloaked in the flesh of a man. Does the Lord not weep at this degradation?" Pete bellows, driven by the blind trust and admiration in the Okies’ eyes, always the most powerful when he’s preaching.

"Does He not tremble with righteous fury? And shall he not seek retribution? I open my eyes and I see a black sky that tears apart and screams with a voice that is thunder, 'Rise up, rise up brothers and sisters and take your place at my side. For you shall be my scythe and your face shall shine like a thousand suns and the streets shall be sanctified by the steaming black blood of the heretics.' And together brothers and sisters, together we shall build a shining temple, a kingdom that will last for thousands and thousands of years."

The sound of a gunshot splits his roaring ovation, and then he notices Ashlee struggling with Joe for the revolver, trying to take it away from him. She gets a grip of it and yanks it from Joe's hands, pale as a sheet. "Daddy," she chides, appalled at what she's witnessed. Pete turns his head slowly, looking behind himself. There's a bullet-sized hole in the tent behind him; it looks like the shot just barely missed him.

Before the crowd gets to Joe, Pete urges everyone to find back to their seats and calm down.

"But he tried to kill you," a man in a dusty brown suit yells. "Surely you ain't gonna let this crime go unpunished!"

"He's just an old man," Pete says, stepping down from the podium, trying to placate the crowd. "God teaches us to love our family, our neighbors, to forgive those who do us wrong. This man doesn't know what he's doing." He takes the steps down and goes to kneel beside Joe, taking his pasty hands into his. "I forgive you, Joe," he says, looking into Joe's eyes, only gripping Joe's hands tighter when he tries to yank them away. "I forgive you, father."

Standing up, he meets his people's eyes, almost floored by the strong, honest sense of love that surrounds him, that at that moment wants to burst out of him, too.

 _These are your people_ , he hears a voice inside his head telling him, and finds it easy to smile at every adoring face. "It's almost time," he murmurs, pulling Ashlee under his arm, squeezing her shoulder tight. She gives him a shaken look like she wants to be anywhere but here. "It's almost time to be fantastic."

Outside the tent Ashlee introduces him to a sad-eyed young man. "His name is Gerard," she says, holding him by his shoulders.

"It's an honor to meet you, Brother," Gerard says, offering his hand for Pete to shake. "Your sermon was awe-inspiring. I got goose bumps all over. I still have them."

Pete traces the length of Gerard's arm with his eyes, then takes the offered hand to shake. "Thank you, I'm glad my speech left such an impression."

"He has the gift," Ashlee throws in, and Pete thinks she sounds almost sarcastic.

"Ash," Pete smiles pleasantly at her. "I think our good Christians are starving for your world-famous coffee. She makes the blackest, strongest teeth-rotting coffee you will ever have," he adds for Gerard's benefit. "Terrible on its own, but great with cream and sugar." She rolls her eyes and says Pete's just a wimp, but she's got the hint and makes her exit, leaving Pete alone with the newcomer.

"I'll definitely have to try that out sometime," Gerard grins as Pete starts steering them back into the now vacant tent.

"So, Gerard, tell me. Where are you from?" Pete asks, motioning for Gerard to sit down on a rickety garden chair.

"Here and there." Gerard sounds almost embarrassed. "I'm not really from any certain place," he tries to explain further. "All I've ever known is the road."

"I see. That sounds fascinating," Pete says, Gerard's words triggering flashes from his childhood that he's tried so hard to repress. "In a way the whole world is your home."

Gerard considers it for a while, then nods as a small, wistful smile starts tugging at his mouth. "Yeah. Yes. Sometimes that's exactly how it is, but then other times I feel like there's no place on Earth I could ever call home."

There's only one way to describe Gerard and that's tragic. There's potential there to make a new and improved man out of him, to fix whatever there is to be fixed and get a good ally in the process. They don't come in spades, trusty allies; it's important that he does this right.

"Do you have a place to stay here in New Canaan?"

Gerard shakes his head. "Not yet, but I'm working on it."

"Well, we have… recently lost our maid," Pete says almost sheepishly, wondering with a sick sense of fascination how long it would take to get into Gerard’s head, how long until he has control over him, whether he’s easier to lead than Ashlee, or if they’re all just the same. "There's an empty room in the house, what do you say about moving in?"

"What? Seriously? That's… Thank you so much. You've saved me from a night under the open sky." Gerard looks so grateful and amazed at Pete's hospitality that Pete can't help but smile big and join in on Gerard's celebration.

"It's no problem, we could always use a little help maintaining the house, it's so big for just the three of us. Look for my sister and tell her what I said. She'll show you the ropes."

Gerard stands up, shaking Pete’s hand.

“Oh, and Gerard,” Pete says before he turns to leave. “I’m sorry you had to witness that little incident at the sermon. My adoptive father has been sick for a long time now, I’m afraid he’s slowly decaying mentally. Most of the time he doesn’t even seem to remember who I am, thinking I’m someone he should be afraid of.”

Gerard nods earnestly, motioning with his hand. “I get it, it’s totally fine. I’m just sorry your family has to go through something like that. It must be hard.”

“Everything has a purpose,” Pete says, and together they walk out of the tent into a sea of people awaiting Pete, wanting to thank him for his inspirational words.

 

\--

 

The sun coupled with the tar all over his skin has done so much damage to Bob that Frank feels nauseous just looking at him. He leaves Bob and Tegan under the tree and jogs back to get his truck and drives over, parking next to Bob’s mauled body.

"Help me get him to the back of the truck," he says as he cuts the string holding Bob’s hands together loose with Ozzy’s dagger, draping Bob’s arm around his shoulders. Tegan gets on Bob's other side and wraps her arms around his stomach, cringing when his head lolls onto her chest.

"Ready?" She nods and together they struggle to stand up, lifting Bob's dead weight between them. Frank's knees buckle instantly and he almost loses his grip. "Jeez, how much does he weight?"

"Come on, just. We're almost there," Tegan grits out, egging him on. Her face is wet and dirty, hands covered in tar all up to her elbows but the adrenaline is giving her the strength of a bear.

They lift Bob's deadweight onto the bed of the truck. Tegan puts her foot on the tailpipe and hoists herself up, crawling to drape herself over him, taking Bob's face into her hand.

"You just look after him, okay?" Frank says before climbing in the driver's seat. "And don't worry," he yells, pulling the door shut with a loud bang. "I have a plan!"

He drives them to the empty desert, the wheels blowing dust clouds inside through the open windows. When big black birds start circling the sun, Frank changes gear and drives them off the road. He keeps going until the main road is just a thin snake behind the truck, then hits the brakes and hurries out, going to the back to check up on Tegan and Bob.

"Let's get him down," Frank says, trying to mask his self-doubt and worry with faked reassurance. If Tegan notices, she doesn't let on, probably just clinging onto every bit of hope she can find.

They lower Bob onto the ground, the dust sticking to the tar on his skin. She goes down with him, supporting his head on her thighs.

Bob comes to for a slow second, grunting in pain as he searches for Tegan's eyes. A sob escapes her, and she drops a too-tender kiss to his temple, her face wet with tears. "Please, Bob. _Please_ , no. I - I’ll do anything - I’ll stop dancing," she whispers, caressing his burning hairline, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I promise. Just please don’t die."

"It's okay," Frank says with a tight voice, trying to reassure them both. "It'll be okay."

"What do you have in mind?"

Frank looks up at the sky, the vultures have followed them from the roadside and more are coming fast, a black cloud of feathers moving towards them, driven by the kind of hunger you can only experience in the desert.

"Go. Leave us," he says to Tegan, keeping an eye on the birds. He doesn’t want to take any chances, doesn’t want to put her in danger. He doesn’t know how much life he needs to draw from the birds, but he guesses it won’t be as simple as with the girl and her mother. "Take the truck and drive back to the road and don't come back."

"But --"

"Tegan," Frank says, grabbing her arm and pulling her up from the ground, forcing her away from Bob. "You asked me for help, this is me helping. Go. Take the truck and don't come looking for us. If everything goes well, we'll come looking for you. Both of us." He hadn't saved her sister, but he's going to save Bob, even if it's the last thing he does.

Tegan tries to match Frank's forced smile with her watery one, and Frank grips her arms a little tighter, then lets her go, watching as she gets in the truck and starts the engine. She takes a U-turn and guns the gas, peeling off towards the road, following the fresh wheel tracks in the dirt. He waits until the shape of the truck is blurred in his vision, then settles down next to Bob, sitting quietly and waiting as more birds land on the ground and venture closer, trying not to scare them off.

A swirl of black and he's almost knocked over, loud screeching splitting his ears. The vultures are getting more daring with every passing moment. Frank shifts gently closer to Bob, his heart beating like a snare. He closes his eyes and places his hands on Bob's chest, trying to fight the panic when he can't feel him breathing, forcing himself to calm down.

"Get a fucking grip," he murmurs to himself, bunching his fingers in Bob's shirt, then to Bob, "You're gonna owe me big time for this, big time," but not really meaning it, just trying to convince himself that Bob’s going to be okay.

All around him he can hear the rustle of feathers, soft thumps as the screeching gradually quiets down. The flow of energy feels no different from that he draws from humans, but he has to take a lot of it, more than he's ever taken before. When Bob’s recovery starts taking too long, he forces more of his own energy into Bob and it seems to do the trick.

He's sweating and shaking when Bob's chest finally expands, and he drops to the ground, lying his lead-heavy head on Bob's chest, a stray tear gliding down his cheek as his head rises and falls to the steady rhythm of Bob's breathing.

Bob's head rolls to the side and he groans, swiping his face with his arm. He nudges Frank aside and sits up, taking in the hundreds of birds lying lifeless all around them. He blinks, shifting ill at ease.

"Must've been some fucking party," he says, dazed, and Frank lets out a relieved chuckle, closing his eyes, his body surprisingly light and the air easy to breathe.

Frank isn't sure who's supporting who when they trudge back to the main road, but his knees buckle and he almost falls to the ground when Tegan comes running to them and throws her arms around Bob, pulling him into a crushing hug.

She drives them back to the campsite. Brian is waiting outside of Tegan's trailer, fixing a worried look on each of them in turn when they climb out of the truck.

"What's going on?" he asks, eyes finally coming to rest on Frank who's trying his best to look better than what he feels like, focusing on evening out his breathing, hiding his shaking hands inside his pockets. "Frank? What did you do?"

"Nothing. Just leave it," Frank grits out as his stomach makes a painful lurch.

"Come on, you need to lie down," Tegan says and starts steering Frank into the trailer, letting him lean against her for support.

"Frank," Bob says while Tegan hits the door with her hip, nudging it open. The hinges creak and whine like old joints. "I'm going to tell Brian. He deserves to know."

Frank's gaze flits between Bob's stupidly grateful face and Brian's calculated suspiciousness. He sighs, nodding his head wearily, the fight in him leaving his body with every exhale.

Tegan's bed is soft and the pillows smell like dried flowers. Frank feels immediately muckier when he almost regretfully sinks down in it.

"You just rest for a while," Tegan whispers, pushing sweaty clumps of hair out of his eyes. "We owe you everything."

"You don't owe me a thing,'" Frank voices, reveling in the soft caresses. He closes his eyes for just a second, but when he comes to, it's already dark outside.

He glances around, not lifting his head from the pillow, and notices Bob, Brian and Tegan sitting at the round table in the candlelight. Lindsey and Bert are perching on the wide wooden trunk where Tegan keeps her show costumes and other accessories. The candlelight flickers on the trunk’s varnished surface and it's got caught in Lindsey's hair and eyes.

She's saying, "So this minister… he's a bad guy?"

"Frank seems to think so," Bob shrugs, and Ray adds, "Ozzy thinks that too, and so do I." Frank hadn't even noticed Ray up until now. He's looming by the window, staring out into the darkness.

"He fixed my wrist," Bob says suddenly, loosening his support strap and rubbing the pale skin with his thumb. "When he -- well. You all know what he did. That kid, hell. When I first met him, I didn't think that much of him, but. I was just being stupid. I know now that the kid’s alright."

Brian snorts, shaking his head. "Understatement of the year."

"He saved Bob’s life," Tegan smiles, holding on to Bob's arm.

"He's also awake," Bert comments with an amused grin, and then everyone's eyes are on Frank except for one's. Bob's staring at his hands, his thumb still ghosting over his wrist like he's just waiting for the ache to return back to his bones.

"Uh," Frank says, tucking a leg under himself while sitting up on the bed.

"Man of the hour," Bert crows, reaching forward to thwack Frank on the back.

"Look, I know it's hard, but can you just not make a big deal out of this," Frank says, the irritating throbbing against his temples adding to his bad mood. "I just did what any one of you would have if you’d had the chance."

He’s met with disbelieving looks. "What're you so afraid of?” Brian asks; his voice sounds almost accusing in Frank’s ears. “That now that we know your big secret, we're just gonna beseech you for favors?"

"Look, you don't know what it's like to be stared at like you're some kind of a freak --"

"Oh, honey," Lindsey laughs, casting him a pitying look. "You have no idea."

 

\--

 

It’s taken no time at all for Gerard to unpack. His only belongings a sketchbook, a pack of Tarot cards and a worn photograph.

“That’s me and Mikey,” he explains with a weak smile on his tired face as Pete studies the photo. Gerard looks around the age of ten and Mikey a little younger, both sitting by the Ferris wheel. Mikey’s leaning against Gerard’s chest in an awkward position and they’re both smiling: Gerard big and wide, Mikey thinly and more with his eyes.

“Your brother?”

  Gerard nods, his lips in a tight clench. He turns around and walks to the open window, resting his hands on the frame. There’s tension in his shoulders and his head hangs low. “I’m sorry, it’s just –“

“You lost him,” Pete says quietly, studying the line of Gerard’s shoulders.

Gerard stifles his sob. His shoulders are shaking. “There was a fire. I couldn’t – I wasn’t fast enough. I couldn’t save him.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete says, sitting down in a chair. “He must have meant a lot to you.”

  “He was my whole world.”

“Why don’t you tell me about him?” Pete prompts, and Gerard turns around to look at him, tears caught in his lashes.

“I don’t know if I can.”

  “It might help,” Pete suggests, motioning for Gerard to take the seat next to him. Gerard sighs, pulling his lip between his teeth. He swipes a hand over his face, wiping off the wetness from his cheeks as he collects himself.

“I – we looked out for each other. Always. Mikey had this way of keeping me grounded, making sure to let me know when I’d fucked up, but then helping me figure out how to fix things.”

“I’m sure you helped him out just as much.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. But he was always the stronger one. And I feel so empty now. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“You’ve already taken a step forward. After all, you came here,” Pete smiles, reaching over the round coffee table to squeeze Gerard’s hand.

Gerard’s smile is weak, but at least he’s smiling.

“I’d like to help you, Gerard. I know you’re hurting, and you’ll be hurting for a while, but it will get easier.” Pete gets up from the chair and walks to the desk, pulling out a worn Bible from the drawer. “Listen, I know it has its faults but, people seem to find comfort in it.”

“The Bible,” Gerard breathes out, taking it from Pete. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about turning to the Book.”  

“Give it a shot,” Pete shrugs, pleased that Gerard seems to be listening to him, that his mind is open to him.

“Thank you.”

“Gerard. I know what it’s like to lose someone important. I got separated from my family when I was just a little boy. I’ve never felt so alone as I felt back then. But then I met Joe and Ashlee. They gave me a new home. A good home. I’d like to do the same for you.”

Gerard blinks. “Um, wow. I don’t know what to say, Peter. I’m honored. It’s just that – why me? There’s a valley full of people out there, every one of them is more deserving than me.”

“I see a lot of potential in you, Gerard. I can’t explain it but I just, I feel like I need to help you. No man or woman or child in this valley is alone like you. They’re all with their families, friends, loved ones. I want you to feel a part of this community as well. Like you belong here. Because you do.”

“Well. Thank you. That means a lot.”

Pete smiles. Gerard has definitely warmed up to him. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts now. Just remember that everybody grieves differently, and the grieving process takes time. Don’t try to force it, and don’t try to shut your brother out of your thoughts either, that’ll only do you harm in the long run. You must keep his memory alive. He’ll always be a part of you, you know that, don’t you?”

Gerard exhales shakily and nods, pressing the Bible to this chest. “I do. I – thank you, again. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

“Keep your chin up,” Pete says, and Gerard smiles a bit, raising his head a little higher.

 

\--

 

Frank takes the ten-minute walk into town with Bob and Ray. Surprisingly, Ray had wanted to come along, all the excitement finally catching up with him. He'd claimed not wanting to sit in his trailer when so much was going on in the world, wanted to feel a part of it all.

They step into a diner, sitting down in a booth with soft, worn-out burgundy leather seats, salt- and peppershakers overturned on the table and coffee rings staining the place mats. On the wall above the counter there's a mirror, which reflects Frank's dusty image back to him.

"Coffee?" the waitress asks. Her pale-yellow dress is immaculate but the off-white apron around her waist is covered with stains. She pushes a strand of dirty-blond hair behind her ear and fills their mugs, smacks her red lips together and drops three crinkly menus on the table.

"Do you have the paper?" Ray asks when she turns to leave. She nods her head towards the counter and says with a southern drawl, "Help yourself, sugar-pie."

Ray's neck is flushed pink when he returns with the newspaper and starts leafing through it, hiding his face behind it while Bob and Frank share amused smirks over the coffee mugs.

Something's very familiar about the diner, from the interior decorations to the blonde waitress, but Frank can't place it. It almost feels like he's stepped into a hazy, long forgotten dream.

"I think I found something," Ray says suddenly, smoothing out the paper and laying it on the table. The headline reads, REVEREND NEARLY GETS IT - A near-death shooting shakes the Temple of Jericho. "It says here that radio preacher Peter Simpson was almost shot during his first inspirational speech in a valley they've named New Canaan." Ray blinks. "By his step-father and respected churchman, Joe Simpson."

"That's him!" Frank says, almost tipping over his coffee in his haste to have a better look at the small picture. It's not a big story at all, almost like a page-filler in the side-column on the far end of the page. But Frank recognizes Pete instantly. He's standing outside a large tent, holding himself in an awkward pose with -- Frank scans the picture notes -- _stepsister Ashlee Simpson_ clutching his arm. A few feet away from the couple Joe Simpson sits in his wheel chair, a look of disappointment shaping his old face.

"That's your preacher?" Bob asks, squinting at the picture. "Doesn't look that scary to me."

Ray takes a swig from his mug, swallowing noisily. "New Canaan," he says, nodding his head, his hair bobbing along with the motion. "That's the place in your photo, right? It's not far away from here at all, just a few hours' drive."

Frank sets his jaw, pressing his hand on the dagger attached to his belt and tries to psych himself for the task to come.

It takes about an hour of arguing with Bob until Frank gives up in trying to make him stay behind. Then Brian finds them when they're making their leave, and practically forces them to wait until everyone else has packed their stuff too, says they're going the same direction anyway, so why can't they all just take the same road? And then Frank sees Tegan lurking close by, the embodiment of satisfaction.

"Great," he says, getting more irritated by the second while smoking by Brian's truck and glaring at people running in all directions, gathering their belongings. "This is exactly what I didn't want."

A slow grin tugs at Bob's mouth. He pulls a torrent of smoke from his cigarette and savors it, then glances at Frank sideways, one arm tucked comfortably against his chest. "I don't know. Having a support-team has its perks."

Frank sneers at that and Bob huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "A few months ago, no one would have followed you willingly one single foot. Aren't you happy you made friends?"

"They're not following me because they want to, but because Brian made them."

Bob considers it a while. "Maybe," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "But what about me, then?"

"You're living by this fucked up sense of gratitude, feeling like you owe me for saving your life. Which, you don't. I already told you that." Frank flicks his still smoking stump on the ground, the red glow of the flakes making an aura of light in the sand until dust puts it out; the sun has been setting for a while now.

"I do owe you," Bob says, his slow amusement has died fast, replaced by heavy solemnity. "But that's not why I'm coming with you."

"Whatever," Frank says, finding it hard to keep Bob's intense gaze.

"Yeah," Bob says, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. " _Whatever_."

After the quick drive, the carnies set camp above the valley, far enough from the Simpsons' house that Frank is lulled into believing they're sufficiently hidden from the preacher, but still so close that a brisk walk into the valley takes merely minutes.

Now that they're finally here, Frank feels reluctant to leave the trailer. It's already dark out, over the valley rests a blanket of light from hundreds of tents, almost like a reflection of the starry sky above. He thinks about Gerard with an ache in his chest, and hopes that he’s alright wherever he is.

He spends some time just looking out the window, trying to collect his thoughts. Maja and Lindsey are sitting on the hood of somebody's truck and sharing a bottle of mescal. Maja is holding the bottle pressed to her chest and shaking her head, exasperated, while Lindsey laughs with her head thrown back, her shoulders shaking with it.

Further back, Bert, Dan, Quinn and Jepha are huddled together around a small campfire, smoking, looking uncharacteristically sober but not exactly in bad spirits.

Brian joins Maja and Lindsey after a while, hops on the hood between the girls and leans in to give Lindsey a kiss on the cheek, then does the same to Maja, stealing the bottle from her in the process.

At the round table Frank pulls the daggger from its sheath and holds it close to the candle's flame, studying the blade. The metal is spotted with dark blotches, the leather of the handle soft and worn but the blade sharp and well kept.

The door opens and closes, and then Frank feels Bob's eyes burning on the back of his head. He sighs, gently laying the dagger on the table.

"I could find you a better weapon," Bob says, nodding at the blade. "Gun maybe. Maja's got some really sweet swords if that's more your style." He grins wolfishly like he's just bursting to kick some ass.

"It's gotta be the dagger," Frank says, watching the reflection of the candle's flames licking at the blade. "Ozzy was pretty insistent about that."

"Ozzy? Don't tell me you're taking that nutjob seriously."

"He seemed to know his shit. Everything he said to me, down to the last detail, it's all happened. I have no reason to doubt him."

Bob twists his lips; he's made his opinion about Ozzy painfully clear countless of times before, so Frank is surprised when he lets the matter rest now. "I walked around a little," he says instead, dropping onto a chair. "Checking the grounds. It doesn't look that great; preacher's got some mean-looking guard dogs out there. Some of them really big guys. Not that I couldn't take them."

"I'm still going to try and get in the house. I have to. First thing in the morning."

When morning rolls around, the butterflies in Frank's stomach have transformed into bats. He takes his time washing his face in the bowl of water on the nightstand and changing into a clean shirt, pulling the straps of his dungarees over his shoulders and working the clasps. He runs his hand through his messy hair, fingers getting stuck in the curls until he tugs them loose.

He checks and double checks that the dagger is hidden in his pocket, then after a moment's thought picks up the small and slender hatchet from a tree stump that Maja's used for target practice.

In the valley everyone's too busy to pay him any heed, and besides, he fits right in with the Okies in his dusty clothes and calluses, knows their slang. When he notices a stack of firewood behind a white tent, a plan starts to form in his head. He gathers a pile of logs into his arms and hides the hatchet and his dagger underneath it, careful that they stay hidden.

At the house two guards stop him, aiming their rifles at his chest. “What’s your business?” one of them asks. “No one goes further without our consent.”

Frank puts on his best innocent face and says, “I was asked to bring firewood for the Brother and his family.”

Guard number one hands his rifle to the other one and gives him a dirty smirk around his smoke before starting to pat him down. "Gotta be careful," he says, giving Frank's thigh a hard grope, "'Lotta psychos 'round here parts, just doin' my job." Frank grits his teeth and holds tight onto the logs, not letting them drop.

When he gets the all clear, Frank goes around the house and drops the logs into an empty flowerpot to free his hands. He pockets his dagger again, keeping a tight hold of the hatchet as he tries the front door. It opens soundly, and Frank wanders in.

The kitchen and the living room open out on either side of the hallway, all the furniture and kitchen utensils bathing in the daylight streaming in through the large windows. Every room downstairs is empty. Frank takes the steps upstairs as quietly as he can manage, holding his breath as he tiptoes down the hallway, peeking into the rooms through the small cracks in the doors, sweaty hand gripping the hatchet so tightly his fingers are starting to prickle.

When he gets closer to the wall on the far end of the hallway, quiet, muffled sounds start drifting into his ears. He chances closer, pressing his back against the wall as he peers into the last room. The door is so ajar that he has no trouble looking in. He sifts even closer, immediately recognizing the two people in the room as Ashlee and Joe Simpson.

Joe is sitting in a wheel chair and he gets a flashback of Mikey in his chair outside with Gerard feeding him breakfast from a porcelain plate, both entrenched in a silent conversation, and he has to struggle to swallow down the sudden lump that's attempting to close up his throat.

Ashlee's sitting on the bed next to Joe, wringing her hands, looking nervous like she's trying to tell him something that's hard to say.

"Look, daddy, what you tried to do to Pete. I want you to know I understand. And sometimes -- sometimes I wish I hadn't stopped you that day," she confesses, looking down at her hands in her lap.

"I haven't felt like myself for ages," she continues, her voice shaky. "I don't think he has either. Like something -- some force beyond our control is guiding us, making us do all these terrible things. I think I killed Hayley," she admits, tears in her eyes.

Joe moistens his lips, and when he speaks, his voice is rough and hard to hear. "The force that's controlling you -- it's him. It's Peter. He's the one forcing you do these things. His mind has been corrupted by the devil."

"Maybe so, but he's still my brother. And he's your son."

"Foster," Joe corrects, and Ashlee tsks, shaking her head. "Even so. I've loved him my whole life."

Heavy silence falls in the house, and Frank thinks it's time to make his exit. He makes it all the way back to the stairs when the door opens and Ashlee walks out. She stops in her tracks upon noticing him.

"You're Frank," she says slowly, taking him in, her puffy eyes lingering on the weapon in his grip. Frank glances at the front door directly below the stairs, and wonders what would happen if he just fled. Ashlee doesn't seem threatening though, and he's not come all this way to run.

Frank lets go of the railing and turns to Ashlee, stepping away from the staircase. "How do you know my name?"

"My brother. He's not as clandestine as he likes to believe."

Frank swallows hard, the bats in his stomach taking flight. "He knows I'm here?"

"I don't think so," Ashlee says, and looking into her eyes Frank knows she's telling the truth.

"I heard you back there, you and your father, heard what your brother made you do."

"I wish I had made better choices," she says quietly, holding Frank's gaze. "I know I wasn't alone in them, wasn't myself, but. They were ultimately all mine. The children. Hayley. They're black sins, sins outside of redemption."

"He's a bad man and I think you should leave. Get the hell away from this place."

"Hell?" Ashlee huffs out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "When I die, I go to Hell. I am fortunate, though, for my brother will be waiting for me with open arms."

Frank's started to notice the bags under her eyes, her messy hair and dirty clothes. She doesn't strike him as someone who wants to let others see her in anything but tip-top condition, and he can't help but feel sorry for her. Sorry that another life has been ruined by Pete. "I need to find him, finish what's started."

She sets her jaw tight, her eyes calculating. "He's baptizing devouts down at the pond today. You will find him there."

Frank nods, turning to leave.

"The hatchet," she says with a voice to be reckoned. "Leave it."

Frank hesitates, momentarily tightening his hold of the weapon, but it's not the dagger, so it doesn't really matter anyway. He hands it over and she wraps her fingers around it securely, holding it to her chest.

Walking down the sun-beaten path, Frank is met with men and women dressed up in sharp-white cloaks. A young woman stops him with a hand on his arm and asks, "Have you been baptized?"

"No, ma'am," Frank breathes out, and she smiles softly, leading him into a small tent where people are mucking around, white cloaks hanging from a large rack in the center. She studies Frank minutely, then selects a garment for him, helping it over his head and tying the strings at the back.

"You should hurry up, sweetheart, if you don't wanna miss the start."

"Uhh, thanks," Frank says, dazed, amazed at his luck. He wobbles out of the tent and joins the sea of white cloaks, slowly making his way down to the river.

He hides behind the mass of people, watching as the minister stands waist-deep in the water, a queue of ten on his right. Frank's heart jumps up to his throat when he realizes who's standing next to the minister, dressed in white, his pale face and hair adding to his eerie image as he stands still and waits to get baptized.

" _Gerard_ ," Frank breathes out, his chest clenching hard.

Later, Frank hides behind a tent and waits for the group to move back from the pond. He searches the sea of white robes and when Gerard walks past him, he yanks him by the arm in the shade of the tent.

"Frank!" Gerard says, surprised but not upset to see him. "You found me."

"Gee, what are you doing here? Why'd you get baptized by that man?" Frank hisses, pulling them further from the path when a new surge of people travels past them.

Gerard smiles, looking so at peace with the whole world. "I need to introduce you to him. He's so inspiring."

"What? No, Gerard, he's a bad man. He's the one I've been having nightmares about! We need to get away from him, back to the carnival where it's safe."

"You're not making sense, Frank. He's been nothing but nice to me ever since I got here. You must be mistaken."

"Gerard, please, let's just go, okay?" Frank begs. Every passing moment is adding to his anxiety, and he just wants to leave the valley. "Come on, the carnival is just above the hill."

"I'm not going back there," Gerard says with determination. "I can’t. I've found my place. I haven't felt this at peace with myself for ages. And Peter's helped me so much with coming to terms with Mikey's death. I owe him to stay."

Frank takes a step back, shaking his head. He feels weak like he's been punched in the gut. "I can't believe he got to you so fast."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gerard frowns. “But please. Try to understand. I can't go back. I left because I couldn't deal with the carnival anymore. So much crap happened there. First Sara. Then Mikey. I needed to get out."

His whole body radiates determination. There's so much of it in Gerard's eyes that Frank just knows there's nothing he can do to get him to leave. He swallows down his disappointment and nods, exhaling heavily. "Can I at least ask you a favor?"

"Of course, what is it?"

"Just. Be careful, okay? And don't mention me to him. Please don't tell anyone I'm here. Can you do that for me?"

Gerard studies Frank for a while, and then nods, reaching out to grab Frank's hand and giving his fingers a quick squeeze. "I promise."

Frank breathes out a sigh of relief, and as much as it pains him to leave Gerard there, that's all he can do for now. "Thank you. I need to get going, but I'll see you later, okay?"

Gerard nods, letting go of Frank's hand. "I'd like that," he says.

 

\--

 

At the dinner table no chair is empty. Ashlee's brought hers next to Joe's, and she's cutting up pieces of meat for him, then scooping up mashed potatoes and peas with his fork, feeding him medium-sized bites.

"Look at us," Pete smiles, resting his elbows on the table on either side of his plate. "Like a real family."

Gerard gives his peas a sad smile, poking at them with his fork. He’s been kind of subdued ever since they got back from the river, mostly keeping to himself throughout the day. Maybe he just needs more time, Pete thinks, studying his face. Maybe the day’s just managed to overwhelm him.

He turns his attention to Ashlee and says, "I think our patient is starting to be well enough to eat by himself."

Ashlee gives Pete a tense look, scooping up more potatoes and feeding them to Joe, taking no heed of him.

"I said leave it," Pete snaps, and she drops the fork on Joe's plate with a clatter, exhaling shakily. She recomposes herself and then slowly pushes her chair back, sitting down at the head of the table opposite to Pete.

Satisfied, Pete turns to Gerard again, giving him a pleasant smile as Joe slowly attempts to pick up his fork. "We both have a big day behind us. You can’t imagine how happy it made me that you decided to get baptized. I’m sure your brother would have been proud of you."

Gerard's worrying his lip while casting unhappy glances at Joe, looking like he wants to get up and help the man. "Uh, yeah," he replies distractedly. "Thank you, again. I think it was just what I needed. I feel like a different person."

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear! Now that you’re one of us, you can finally leave your old life behind you. I promise that you won’t regret it.”

Gerard just smiles ruefully at his peas.

After dinner Pete sits outside on the porch and thinks about everything that’s happened in the past few months. He thinks about Joe in the church lying under the manifestation of the bleeding Jesus Christ on the cross after Joe had failed to kill him. He thinks about Ashlee at night inside of Chin’s, and how he had made her burn it down in his sleep.

He feels powerful, like there’s nothing he can’t accomplish. And once he gets rid of this Frank, the only other man who seems to want him dead as much as Joe, nothing will stand on his way anymore. He’ll have the world on his palm.

Later in the evening Pete paces down the hallways, too excited to sleep, his blood feels hot and his hands jitter, and he kind of wants to go to Ashlee's room and pull her in for a kiss.

The light is on in Gerard's room, and he peeks inside instead. Gerard's hunched over the small letter-desk, oblivious of Pete's presence. The window is cracked open and cool night air drifts inside, ruffling the short hairs on the back of Gerard's neck. Pete sneaks closer, curious to see what he's so engrossed in. He's been living with them for days already and Pete still hasn't quite managed to figure him out.

But that drawing. He's seen this man before, and as Gerard gives more shadows to his handsome face, his image becomes even more defined. "How do you know him?" Pete breathes out, and Gerard jumps, dropping his pen. It slides over the edge of the desk to the floor, rolls along the floorboards and disappears under the unmade bed.

"Wha - what?"

"Who is he?" Pete demands, picking up the picture and shoving it to Gerard's face. "How do you know him?"

Gerard's spooked face becomes more confused by the second, but he stays silent, not telling him a thing. He tries to stand up from the chair but Pete pushes him back down, grabbing a hold of his nightshirt. "Tell me who he is."

"Let go of me, Brother," Gerard says, his voice calm and stern like he doesn’t realize what Pete could do to him. " _Please_."

Pete has to force himself to loosen his grip from Gerard's shirt and take a step back. "Come on, Gerard. This is important. Do you know this man?"

Gerard takes a moment to consider his words. Then he looks at Pete, eyes clear but serious. "He's no one. I must have seen him somewhere and the face just stuck with me." And as convincing as he sounds, Pete knows that he's lying.

"Okay, okay. Sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Thanks anyway," he says, knowing he should leave before he does something reckless. It takes a lot to keep himself in check, he realizes, as he leaves a perplexed Gerard in his room.

He stops by the doorway and glances back at Gerard, trying to make his voice as casual as ever. “By the way. Where did you say you lived before coming here? With Mikey?”

Gerard chews on his lip, hesitating.

“It’s okay to tell me. I just -- I was just wondering. I like to know as much as I can about my new friends. I think it’s important.”

Gerard sighs and nods, attempting a small smile. “I lived in a traveling carnival. With Mikey.”

“Thank you, Gerard,” Pete breathes out and stumbles out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

He leans against the wall in the hallway, mind working to put pieces together. He turns the picture in his hands, studying the familiar face. Gerard's past appears much clearer to him now, and he feels satisfied, just knowing that this man Gerard's taken painstaking care to draw is coming to him, all the signs point to it. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t look at them as just random occurrences anymore.

And Gerard. Gerard just became a whole lot more interesting.

On the next day Pete keeps a close eye on Gerard, apologizing to him for freaking out like that and inviting him for a walk through the valley. Later, he tries to bond with him over coffee that they both inhale a whole pot in the house after their walk, asking more about Mikey and telling Gerard he’s not alone in his sorrow, many people in the valley have lost someone close to them to the dust and drought.

Gerard had been acting kind of cautious in the morning, but as the day progressed, he seemed to be warming up to Pete once more. And in the late afternoon in the wake of another sermon, Gerard takes his seat in the front row with Ashlee and Joe like usual, listening to his words so earnestly that Pete knows he hasn’t lost him to doubt.

They walk back to the house in a comfortable silence, Ashlee a few steps ahead of them pushing Joe's chair and making dinner plans with a couple of their old friends that finally managed to come live in the valley and hear Pete's word. Pete’s thoughts are filled with Frank, and he just knows he will get to meet him soon.

 

\--

 

Later in the evening Frank sneaks back to the house, dodging bodyguards and finding comfort in the shadows under the porch. He peers through the porch railing, his heart skipping a beat when the door opens and Pete walks out, Gerard following close behind him.

Pete is saying, "You have come a long way already, Gerard, but now it's time to make your choice: your old life for a new one with me. The things we could do together… When it all goes down, trust me, you will want to be on my side."

"Your side? I don't understand --"

The tension in the moment breaks when Bob plops down next to Frank, panting heavily from his jog uphill. Frank gives him a quick glance, motioning for him to be quiet then turns back to the unfolding scene.

Pete grabs Gerard's arm, pulling him closer, too close for comfort. Frank clenches his fists at the first sight of struggle, just as the clouds sift and thunder rumbles in the distance. He clutches his dagger tightly, takes a few quick breaths and then goes for the kill, lunging for the preacher.

"It's suicide,” Bob hisses, yanking him back to the safety of the shadows. “Didn’t you see all those guards out there?"

On the porch Pete and Gerard are still talking, Pete now as if on a frenzy, the earnest look on Gerard's face completely wiped out and replaced with confusion and fear.

"He hasn't seen you yet and we want to keep it that way until we have a plan, remember?"

"Fuck! I don't _care_."

"Think what'll happen to Gerard, to _all_ of us if we're not smart about this. You're not being smart right now. We can't fuck this up. Gerard's a big boy, he can take care of himself."

And as if on cue, Gerard wrenches his arm from Pete's grip and whisper-yells, "get off me, God, what's wrong with you lately?" He pushes Pete aside before he marches back into the house, banging the door closed behind him.

Pete stares after him, rubbing his hands together, pulling at his joints.

Frank has an uneasy feeling in his gut all the way back to the carnival, and he tosses in his bed for hours, not able to sleep.

 

\--

 

Pete's pacing in his room in the morning before going down for breakfast, scritching at the itch on his neck. His shirt still unbuttoned, the edges hanging on his hips like a pair of limp arms. A loose thread on the back of his collar is irritating his skin.

There's a scab on his jawline where he cut himself shaving last night, the blood trickling down the column of his neck had been blue like the murky night sky, a drop of it escaping into his shirt collar, soaking into the sharp white fabric.

He runs his fingers along the hatchet resting on his dressing table, the blade freshly sharpened even though the rest of it looks old and worn out. It had been resting on his pillow last night when he finally retreated into his room, and he asked Ashlee about it but she kept quiet, even when her eyes betrayed her.

Heavy steps carry through the open doorway, and then Gerard's head peers into the room, cautiously, like he doesn't want to be seen. He notices Pete's bare chest and stumbles back noisily, their eyes meeting in the mirror as he hastily apologizes for not knocking. Buttoning up his shirt, Pete can sense Gerard's tension like too oppressive air; it fills the whole room. The thin white fabric poorly hides his tattoo, the silhouette is still visible under the shirt.

"Was there something you wanted?" Pete asks, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles.

Gerard stammers, his eyes still fixed on Pete's chest. "I uh, I came to tell you that breakfast's being served now."

"Thank you. You can let Ashlee know I'll be down in a minute."

"Um, yeah, okay, I'll do that."

"Hey, Gerard?" Pete calls after him, stopping him in his tracks. "There's a loose thread on the back of my collar. It's driving me insane. Would you mind?" He holds his razor out for Gerard, going to sit in his chair.

Gerard hesitates, but slowly makes his way to Pete, taking the razor from his outstretched hand. Pete follows Gerard's motions as he fumbles with the small blade. He bends his head down, baring his neck, curious to see what Gerard will do with the blade.

Gerard steps behind him and for a moment Pete thinks Gerard's gonna slice his throat open, but the moment passes and then the irritating thread is in Gerard's hand instead of sticking out of his shirt.

"There you go," Gerard says, handing him back the razor over his shoulder. "Was there something else?"

But something in Gerard has changed. He doesn’t seem as meek and gullible as Pete first pegged him for. What if he tells someone about the tattoo? Would the Okies realize something’s not right?

"I'm afraid so, Gerard," Pete says, standing up from his chair and turning around to face him. He’s made his decision. Gerard has to be silenced. "You really should have knocked."

The door slams closed behind Gerard and the room goes dark like all the light suddenly got sucked out through the windows. Pete calls for help, reaching out to the guards outside, burrowing into their minds.

"Peter? Holy shit, your eyes," Gerard gasps, stumbling backwards and then reaching for the door, struggling to open it. Pete looks at himself in the mirror, black bleeding over the white of his eyes, face flushed, adrenaline making his blood thrum.

The men come running and grab Gerard by the arms. Together they march him down the stairs and out of the door into the bright daylight.

"The storage," Pete says, and the men nod their heads, start steering Gerard down the hill towards the small building behind the row of tents. But he puts up a fight, squirming and struggling against the men's hold, almost breaking free. Pete grabs Gerard by the neck and kicks him in the ankle, satisfied by the uncontrolled wail that escapes Gerard's throat.

"Come on, hurry up, we can't be seen," Pete barks out orders, and the men manage to drag Gerard into the small storage, pushing him in and locking the door. Pete stands by the door for a while, listening to the angry yells and the door rattling by the joints. "I really am sorry, Gerard," he says, and the door jolts violently. "I was hoping it wouldn't have to go this way."

"Let me out you son of a bitch," comes Gerard's muffled voice through the cracks in the wood, and Pete shakes his head, stepping away from the door.

"You know I can't do that. I can’t let you tell everyone about me, all those innocent believers. They can’t know the truth."

He leaves a guard standing by the door, giving him instructions to shoot everyone who tries to break in. Up on the hill he hesitates going back in the house. The weather is gorgeous, and he's been dying to check out the cherry trees that Ashlee's waxed poetic about ever since they moved here. So he heads to the backyard, marveling at the beauty of nature all around the house, smiling at a swallowtail blinking across his vision. The whole world could burn and wither, and there'd still be fresh grass and exuberant plants growing in the wild of his backyard.

And then he sees it. In the distance. Rising from the dust like a strange garden full of exotic plants. A carnival has set camp near the valley, and Pete has a strong sense of deja vu, like he knows this carnival better than the backs of his hands, only he can't really grasp at the thought, and it makes him worry.

"It can't be," he says to himself, running his eyes down the long round shape of the Ferris wheel, mapping it into memory. "Can it?"

 

\--

 

Frank's had a restless night. When he returned from the valley with Bob, everyone was already asleep, all the trailers dark and silent. Bob had wanted a night's rest before they did anything else, convinced that they'd come up with a good battle plan in the morning. Frank had watched him climb up to Tegan's trailer, her meeting him behind the window for a kiss and then both disappearing from sight. It made him ache from loneliness, and all he wanted was for Gerard to be alright.

When the sun finally starts creeping up the skyline, Frank gets up and shakes the sleep out of his body with a quick shower -- the cold water from the drum trickling down his shoulders, making him shiver from cold. He dresses up, amazed that no one else is awake yet, and trudges towards Tegan's trailer, leaning up against the frame of it as he waits for Bob to come out. If he clears his mind and concentrates on listening, he can hear the couple inside talking and make out Gerard's name.

"Are you still sweet on him?" Tegan's asking, and then Frank has to press even closer, not wanting to miss Bob's response.

"No."

"You love me?"

There's a pause that Frank thinks lasts forever, and then finally, Bob's voice saying, "Yes, I do."

"You better," Tegan says with a bright voice, and then everything's quiet again. Frank sinks down, his back sliding against the trailer until his ass hits the ground. He studies his fingers, then presses his head in his hands, reeling. No one's really been able to tell what's really going on with Bob and Tegan. Frank's only ever seen Tegan with girls before, and Bob's never shown any real interest to anyone except for Gerard. He knows they've been close ever since the night in Babylon, when so much bad happened, taking comfort in each other. Bob helping her to come in terms with Sara's death and Tegan taking care of him, easing his loneliness, making it easier to let Gerard go. He knew they cared for each other deeply, he just hadn't guessed that Bob might be in love with her.

Then the door opens and Bob is there, not looking all that surprised to see Frank.

"Iero, you been here all night? Don't be a creep," he says sheepishly, like he's wondering whether Frank heard their talk, then looks almost regretful as he starts wrapping up his healed wrist with the support strap, a habit he hasn't learned out of yet.

Brian and Ray join them and they all entrench themselves in the trailer and share a gut-punching pot of coffee, Frank growing more agitated by the second, the caffeine kicking in and inciting his worry.

He paces around in circles, hands digging into his scalp and twisting his hair. "Fuck fuck fuck, what the hell am I gonna do? There are guards _everywhere_. And now that they all know something's up, there's no way I'll get anywhere near the preacher without someone noticing."

"First of all," Brian says calmly, gripping Frank's arm to make him stop his pacing, "you need to stop talking about this like you're on your own. We're all here for you. You're one of us, remember?"

Frank nods slowly, something so true and genuine in Brian's whole presence that Frank has no choice but to believe him. "I remember."

"Good. Alright then. We'll think of something, don't worry."

"We will set that son of a bitch a trap," Bob says suddenly, joining in the conversation. He had grabbed his baseball from his pocket before perching on Ray's rickety table, and Frank watches as he makes a fist around it and chucks it above his head, catching it when gravity catches up with it, bringing it down.

"A trap?" Ray asks, eyeing the baseball warily as it bumps against the ceiling.

"Brian, do you think we could persuade the preacher to let us open the carnival? Y'know, to entertain their believers?"

A slow grin spreads on Brian's face and then quickly changes into a nasty sneer. "Oh yes, I think we could definitely do that."

Frank sits back in his chair, resting his head on his hands, and closes his eyes as the plan begins to unfold before him.

"How exactly does your… thing work?" Brian asks after a while. "You just heal people by touching them?"

"It's not that easy. I can't just go to a sick person and heal him without any repercussions. I don't really even heal people, I just transfer energy. From one person to another."

"So, what you're saying is, to heal someone --"

"I have to hurt someone else."

There's a short moment where Brian just looks spooked. Then he shakes himself out of it and starts grinning instead. "Well, that's pretty goddamn perfect."

"You wanna fill us in?" Bob prompts, rolling the baseball between his palm and thigh.

"Oh yes. I'm thinking we get the good preacher ride your Ferris wheel. I could take Bert and Lindsey with me to meet the preacher and his sis, and offer them free tickets to board Romance. I'm sure we can charm that bastard into taking those tickets, and once they're up in the air, Jimmy and Frank will start their revival show. Francis Saint Anthony makes his second coming, although this time you're gonna be healing for real." Brian grins at Frank, his face pink with excitement.

"And once he's stuck in the Ferris, you'll be able to milk his energy, to heal all those people inside the tent.”

Frank looks down at his hands. “I don’t know if I can choose where to take the energy. I’ve never tried healing with people so close to me. I’ve always been afraid I’d accidentally hurt someone in the process.”

“Then you’ll practice,” Bob says, standing up. He cuts his finger with his pocketknife and holds it out to Frank, blood pearling on the wound. “Pick someone in here and try it out.”

Frank sighs, staring at Bob through his lashes. “Come on,” Bob eggs him on, and he takes Bob’s hand and closes his eyes, focusing on everyone in the trailer. There’s a muddy ball of energy where Ray and Brian are standing, but he can’t quite distinguish one from the other.

“This is pointless,” Frank says, opening his eyes. “I don’t know who I’m taking it from.”

“What about when you healed that little girl? We were standing just behind you.”

“Yeah, but I had a hold of her mother. It was easy to know where I could take the energy,” Frank says, trying to heal Bob’s bleeding thumb with the energy from Brian and managing to give them all small cuts on their fingers.

“Ah,” Brian and Ray gasp in unison, looking at their fingers as the cut on Bob’s thumb stitches shut.

“So. More practice then?” Bob asks, raising his eyebrows.

They practice all afternoon, Frank getting more and more frustrated as time passes. He’s managed to heal all the small cuts they’ve made on their bodies, but knowing whose energy he’s transferring is still a mystery to him.

“One more time,” Brian says, blood pooling on his palm, and Frank sits back on the chair, his eyes slipping shut.

And there it is. He can sense Ray in one corner of the trailer, a buzzing ball of light, and Bob on the other end of the table, his energy strong and friendly. Brian is standing in front of him, sharp and electric, his energy denser than Bob’s, capricious and fickle to Ray’s calm ball of light.

He focuses on Bob, and draws just enough from him to get Brian’s palm to stop bleeding, opening his eyes to see if he’s done it right.

“Did --? Did you do it?” Ray asks, blinking slowly.

“I -- I think so,” Frank says, his gaze flitting between Brian and Bob, excitement thrumming in his chest.

Brian is grinning at him as he cuffs Frank on the head, ruffling his hair. “Knew you had it in you, kid!”

“I feel less tired, too. I think, before, I must have transformed some of my own energy into people while I was healing them. I just took it anywhere I could get it. I didn’t know how to control it,” Frank says, amazed at himself. “But I think I figured it out. I still need more practice, but I think I know how to do it now!”

“Great,” Bob says, reaching out to squeeze Frank’s arm. “I was getting tired of making myself bleed.”

“Ditto,” Ray quips, and Brian nods, plonking in a chair.

“So. I guess the only thing left to do is killing the preacher,” Frank says, his good spirits dying as fast as they came.

"Don’t worry, Frank,” Brian says, giving him a reassuring look. “The preacher's coaxed all these people into the valley just by the power of speech. The man's all talk. But you, my friend, you're the real deal.”

“After they see what you can do for them, they're gonna leave their preacher alone with his empty words,” Ray pipes up.

“And, of course," Brian adds with a look Frank's gotten all too familiar with, "we're right here, ready to collect their money. Seven thousand Bible thumpers for us to scavenge on. Plus one rotten minister.”

"What about Gerard?" Bob asks after a beat. "What're we gonna do about him?"

"Nothing," Frank says, albeit uneasily.

"What?"

"We do nothing for the time being. Look, it’s just. It'll be safer that way for everyone. We can't let him accidentally blow our cover. We follow through with the plan, then get him when I've taken care of that son of a bitch preacher, before we all get the hell out of here."

"What if Gerard is dead?"

Frank balls his hands into fists, swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat. "If Gerard is dead then God help them all in this valley. Every single last one of them."

Outside the trailer, Brian more or less explains the plan to the rest of the crew who all look various shades of doubtful.

"It all sounds well and good," Jimmy steps up to say, "but I doubt our girls would get a good crowd out of these Bible thumpers."

"You're right," Brian says. "You'd be going dark."

"What? You know we can't afford to do that. C'mon, Brian, we've been struggling ever since we lost Sara. We have to start earnin' again. We need the money. The girls are all ready. Hell, I just talked to Tegan not an hour ago and she was thinking the same as me, she was all ready to get down and dirty with Linds."

"You're going dark," Brian repeats. "This is not something we're going to discuss."

"Fuck you! So what, your word's the fucking law now? I thought we were a democracy."

"Listen, this is something we are going to do. For Frank. We help him out with this thing and then, when it's all done and finished with, we'll talk."

"Why should we do anything for him? What has he ever done for us?" Jimmy demands. "Ever since we met him, things've gone to shit. That guy's nothing but bad luck as far as I'm concerned."

"Jimmy, come on," Lindsey says, touching Jimmy's arm. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"What's Frank done for us? I'll tell you what he's done. He's saved my life," Bob speaks up. At this point Frank seriously considers walking away from the conversation. It's getting too much, he can already feel everyone's eyes on him. And it's strange, having Bob defending him so fiercely, all the negativity between them long forgotten.

"He's done what now?"

"The man whose child got killed some time ago came to seek revenge for his wife's death. He and a couple of his friends. Beat me to a pulp, dunk me in tar and left me in the sun to die. Frank saved my life, and when he did that, he also fixed my wrist," he says, loosening the support strap, throwing it to the ground. "The bone's not sticking out anymore. I can throw ball better I did in my best days."

The carnies look shell-shocked.

"So everything people've been saying about him, all the things he did… They weren't just trying to pull my leg?" Jimmy asks, eyes wide as saucers.

"I was there," Tegan says with a strong voice, removing herself from Bob's side and going to stand next to Frank. She gives him a gentle, encouraging smile and laces their fingers together in an act of support. "Frank saved his life."

It's an odd moment; everyone's looking at Frank in various shades of awe. Jimmy's mouth is agape, Maja's shaking her head amazed, Dan looks less dazed than usual and Lindsey's shooting Jimmy knowing glances, like she's known all along what kind of man Frank really is.

"So," Brian says, finally looking pleased. "Anyone still got something to get off their chest?"

"I have a question," Jimmy says after getting his voice back. His tone is hard, all the awe disappeared from his face, and Frank braces himself, dread pooling in his stomach, already guessing where the conversation is steering to. "If you're so powerful, why didn't you do anything to help Sara? Or Mikey? What about them?"

Frank makes a show of shuffling his feet to hide the fact that tears are prickling in his eyes. It's a valid question, but Frank had hoped no one would think to bring it up. He wishes he had a good enough answer to give, not to Jimmy but to Tegan. And to Gerard, too, even though he knows there's nothing he could have done there, and he would have done _everything_ for Gerard and Mikey.

"Mikey was just ash and pieces of black corpse," Bob says. "I don't see how Frank could have done anything to save him."

Jimmy runs a hand through his messy hair and sighs, relenting a little. "And Sara?"

Frank turns to Tegan, balling his hands into fists, fingernails pressing into his skin. "I'm sorry about her. I'm so sorry, Tegan. I -- I was scared. I didn't want anyone finding out about me. And I just. I didn't know how save her without hurting everyone else in the process."

Tegan's eyes are wet, tears gliding down her cheeks. "But you figured it out," she says, looking at Bob. "Eventually. You figured it out."

Frank nods his head shakily, staring down at his shoes, shame burning hot on his neck and cheeks. "Eventually."

"I'm glad you did figure it out. Otherwise Bob would be dead too. You saved his life," she voices, going to wrap Frank into a loose embrace. "I don't know what I would have done --" she looks around, sighing heavily, "what any of us would have done -- if we had lost him too," she whispers, letting go of him, her eyes sad but not resentful. And it's all Frank needs, all he needs to carry on. He doesn't give a flying fuck what Jimmy thinks. All that matters is that Tegan doesn't seem to hate him.

 

\--

 

Around the time for afternoon coffee there's a knock on the door. Pete lays the newspaper he had been reading from on the table, wipes the ink from his fingers on his trousers and lets in a motley gang of three, following them bemusedly into the living room where they're already setting fort.

"How can I help you," Pete asks, eyeing the attractive woman who's pulling a shaggy little man into her lap.

"I'm Brian," the other man says, offering Pete his hand to shake. "That's Lindsey and Bert."

"You're carnies," Pete says, just wanting to get to the point, curious to see where this is going, although he can already guess. These are Frank's people.

Brian's smirk doesn't waver. "That's right. We're parked just above the valley. You saw the trailers?"

Pete grins, shaking his head, thinking about Gerard in the storeroom, how powerful he had felt forcing him there. Against Pete, Gerard hadn't stood a chance. "When I was admiring the cherry trees my sister’s been taking care of in the garden."

"I think I've seen her around," Bert quips, rocking back on Lindsey's lap. "She's one hot mama."

Pete stares at this ruffian, the messy scruff of his beard and the challenging sharpness in his eyes. The three of them are starting to irritate him now that the novelty is wearing off. "Was there something you wanted?"

"We're here to make you a proposition," Lindsey says, pushing Bert out of her lap as she stands up.

"A proposition?"

He watches as Lindsey saunters to him, adding a swing to her hips. Her smile is wolf-like, and Pete can't decide whether to be intimidated or turned on by her. He's a little bit both. "You spread the word about our carnival, and we let you and your sister ride the world's best Ferris wheel for free."

"My sister's afraid of heights," Pete says. "And I'm not a kid anymore."

She slides her hand down his chest and presses her lips to his ear, whispers, "Just do it, baby. I'll promise to make it worth your while."

"Linds, stop harassing him," Brian says amusedly, then turns to Pete. "What do you say?"

And of course Pete will say yes. Something's definitely going down. Frank's got his carnies all working for him, and this is it. This is what he's been waiting for all these months. They have a trap set up for him and he's going to play into their hands for now, to find out what they're all made of.

He sees the trio out, shaking Brian's hand and promises to show up tomorrow with his sister for a day of laughs and enjoyment. "Until we meet again," Lindsey winks, touching the small of Pete's back before exiting through the door.

"Later," Pete murmurs to himself, watching their retreating backs.

When the morning finally comes, Pete takes the hatchet from his dressing table and stuffs it under the waist of his pants. He checks himself in the mirror before walking downstairs, dragging Ashlee from the breakfast table, anxious to see the carnival up close and finally face Frank.

"You have to realize you're walking into a trap," Ashlee says, struggling to keep up with Pete's stride, her arm linked tightly around Pete's elbow.

"Of course," he says, the carnival looming in the close distance like an odd little town. He grins, taking it all in. He knows this place. Memories of his childhood in the carnival and Ozzy's betrayal have been flooding back to him all through the night. And oh, but _today_. Today Frank gets to pay for Ozzy's mistakes. "'Course I know it's a trap, but how else would I ever get a chance to meet our Frank? It feels like I'm the only one he hasn't met face-to-face. And I'm curious." Pete increases his pace even more, so eager to see what the carnies have got cooking for him.

When they reach the carnie gates, Brian greets them with faked smiles. "You can't possibly imagine how happy we all are that you came," he says to Pete, holds Ashlee's hands in his for a moment and introduces himself to her. "Miss Simpson. I'm glad you're here as well."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world," she says and glances at Pete who's been all smiles today. His smirk doesn't waver, even when Brian leads them to the Ferris wheel. It looks weatherworn and rickety, the ruby red paint peeling badly off the metal railings and the top of the seats. The word _Romance_ is painted on the frame with careful, steady handwriting that Pete recognizes as Gerard's. He hides that thought deep inside him, doesn't want to risk Frank finding out where Gerard's locked up.

"Shall we?" he asks his sister, and she goes white, gripping his arm tighter.

"Is this thing safe?" she asks Brian nervously as another man starts steering Pete and her into the ride. He introduces himself as Bob Bryar as he takes the tickets from Pete and checks them. It's all a show for Ashlee's benefit, Pete realizes. He could give Bob lint from his pocket and he'd still be riding the 'wheel.

"You have nothing to worry about, miss," Bob grins widely, giving her an encouraging pat on the back, then helps her up on the seat next to Pete, clanking the safety rail closed and locking them in. "I'll personally make sure you're safe," he assures her, glancing at Pete out from the corner of his eye.

As the ride kicks into motion, Ashlee's grip on Pete's arm tightens. Irritating carnie jingles drift into his ears and his belly makes a whoop as they rise up to the sky. Sweet sugary smells from the cotton candy stand waft to his nose, and he takes in the area, sees balloons and the carousel, little kiosks propped up on both sides of the main tent. People are pouring in, lured by the shaggy, spindly man in a top hat standing by the tentway. There's a poster behind him announcing a revival session with Francis Saint Anthony, his picture painted with meticulous care.

 _So this is their plan_ , Pete thinks as the ride suddenly stops and they're left sitting in their cramped seat high up above the ground. Bob and Brian are staring up at him, faces twisted into unnerving smirks.

 

\--

 

Inside the tent the show is about to start. Frank's on the side by the curtains, his palms sweating, waiting for Jimmy to call him up on stage. All those people in the audience are waiting for a miracle, and maybe this time Frank can give them one. He’s spent all his free time practicing his skill, healing cuts and bruises and resurrecting small animals. It’s not in the same caliber as what’s awaiting in front of him, but all those small successes have managed to reassure him more than any of the pep talks Brian and Bob have churned out in the course of the days.

He glances at one of the posters that Lindsey put together, the pictures Gerard painted for the first revival show as her reference pieces. Her style is softer and warmer than Gerard's, and Frank thinks her talent is going to waste in this dusty old carnival.

Jimmy's voice is getting louder now, and so's the crowd. He's back in his tight tails, his hair slicked back over his skull like an animal carcass. Ozzy's dagger rests comfortingly on his hip, grounding him, giving him strength.

As soon as he takes the stage, a wave of confidence washes over him, and suddenly he realizes he can do this, he can do everything. He has the power to destroy Pete, knows what he has to do, and he's not gonna blow up his chance. He can't let Pete destroy the world, can't let those visions become reality.

"I want everyone sick to get to that side," Frank voices out, motioning to his left. "Ah, this is stupid," he murmurs, shrugging out of his tight jacket as he steps down from the stage into the crowd, messing his hair with his hand. He loosens his bow tie and chucks it to the ground, then opens his cuffs and rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows.

He searches the crowd as it settles into two halves, eyes coming to rest on a young, pale woman who's coughing into a dirty-white rag. "What do you have?" he asks her, although he thinks he already knows. The sight isn't anything new to him.

She looks up at him with grey, watery eyes, struggling for an even breath for a while then says, "The doctor said dust pneumonia."

Frank nods, his heart going out to her. "What about you?" he points to an old man who's sitting in a wheel chair, a checkered blanket covering his lap.

"Diabetes took my legs," he says, pulling away the blanket.

Frank stares at the stumps for a while then kneels down next to him, taking his hands. "I can't give you your legs back, but I can cure your disease."

He stands up, still holding onto the man's hand. He rests his other hand on the pale woman's shoulder. "Everybody, join hands like this. I need everyone to be connected."

 

\--

 

Ashlee's starting to show early signs of a panic attack. Pete puts his hand on her knee and tries to calm her down. He knows they're trapped up here, knows they're not getting down any time soon.

He looks down and notices William Beckett talking to Brian, two of Pete's bodyguards with him. They haven't noticed Pete yet, and he considers drawing their attention to him. But before he can react, a splitting sensation tears through his chest and he collapses in the seat, groaning from pain.

"Pete? What's wrong?" Ashlee cries, holding onto the safety railing when Pete trashes in the seat making it wobble.

"Grahhhhhh." Pete presses down, ripping his shirt open and clawing at his chest, the sharp pain unbearable. He struggles for breath, feeling faint and tired, like all the energy is being drained from his body.

Ashlee starts calling out for help, but Pete's bodyguards are busy fighting Brian and Bob. Everything's slipped into chaos. Pete watches with muddy eyes as Brian struggles with a guy twice his size, almost managing to knock him down until he gets a hard blow to the head. Then it's two against one and Bob goes down easily, slumping next to Brian's unconscious body.

Pete regains some of his energy when he's back on the ground, drawing it from the people around him. He straightens up and pushes William Beckett aside who's started hovering over him, telling him to look after his sister instead.

He stumbles towards the tent, snarling at Frank's face staring at him in every poster he sees. Inside the tent people are in some sort of religious frenzy, praying and celebrating, their voices full of hope and amazement. And at the center of everything stands Frank, his hands resting on a man's chest, healing him, drawing that energy from Pete.

He grits his teeth as he falls to the ground, resting his hands on his knees. He just needs to concentrate, needs to clear his mind. It's starting to get better already, and he manages to get the pain to stop, manages to draw a little bit of that stolen energy back to him.

"Frank," Pete thunders, and Frank jumps, dropping his hands from the man's chest.

 

\--

 

"I've been waiting for you." Frank pants, trying to regulate his breathing. His heart is flapping against his ribcage like a frightened bird. His fingers bump against the dagger on his hip, checking that it's still there, while he keeps his eyes on Pete, attentive of his every move.

"Let's take this outside," Pete grits out, his eyes like lumps of coal, his tattooed chest heaving under his open shirt. He turns on his heels and runs out of the tent, and Frank swallows hard, taking after him. The people in the tent are in various stages of bewilderment, calling out after their preacher and Frank.

Outside he notices Brian and Bob sitting up and rubbing their heads.

"Frank?" Brian asks, and Frank stops, drawing out his dagger.

"Can you get Gerard?" he says, following Pete with his eyes. He's running in the direction of a cornfield, disappearing amongst the tall stems. "Once I've dealt with Pete, I want us to get the hell away from here."

"On it," Bob says, pulling Brian to his feet. "Don't worry, we'll find him."

Frank nods, flashing them a grateful smile.

When he steps into the field, everything is eerily silent. Only the rustling sounds of the plants in the wind and under his shoes carry to his ears. Crows take off into flight and rattle the cobs for a while. He tries to look for signs of Pete but the plants are even taller than him, growing so thick that Frank has to struggle to get through.

He walks past a scarecrow and thinks he must be somewhere in the middle of the field.

The leaves sigh behind him, and then there's a loud _whack!_ , sharp pain beginning to bloom on the back of his neck.

His knees give out and he falls to the ground, head swimming, struggling to keep his eyes open.

Pete steps into his view, his whole being emitting dangerous energy, Maja’s hatchet in his grip.

"Surprise," Pete says, and lunges at him.

Three things happen. Frank manages to brush off the pain from his shoulders as he draws energy from the plants around him. He rolls to his side and Pete just misses him, planting face first into the leafy ground. Frank fumbles with his dagger that almost slips from his sweaty, shaky hands. He manages to get a steady grip of the handle just as Pete is getting up, and he lunges at Pete, stabbing him in the back, aiming between his shoulder blades but hitting somewhere in the vicinity of Pete’s right kidney instead. He stumbles back, watching Pete's white shirt turn blue as he bleeds through it.

"Holy shit, he wasn't lying about the blood," Frank breathes out, squeezing the handle of his dagger so tight his hand hurts. "What the hell are you?"

Pete groans, struggling to sit up. He shrugs out of his ruined shirt, the wound on his back healing up before Frank's eyes. "I'm your worst nightmare," he says, stumbling to his feet. "Now run."

Frank dashes through the field, heavy cobs of corn swatting him in the face, their crisp leaves scraping cuts on his skin.

He hides behind another scarecrow, heart pounding wildly, and when Pete comes running past him, Frank trips him up and starts stabbing at him, everywhere he can reach. He’s wild and frantic, but Pete gets a few hits in as well, swiping the hatchet at Frank’s stomach, making him howl in pain.

"Die already! Why won't you fucking die," Frank yells as Pete grabs his throat, Pete’s inky blue blood making his hands slippery.

He gasps for breath, Pete's hands tight around him, pressing at his Adam's apple and closing up his windpipe.

Frank's starting to lose focus. His head feels like lead, the skin of his face numb and too warm. He fixes his eyes on Pete's chest: the tattoo's important somehow, if only he could remember, if only he could _think_.

He's choking, the back of his throat spasming and spit dribbles out of his mouth, landing on Pete’s face. He can’t tear his eyes away from the tattoo, even when dark spots start exploding in his vision. He thinks about Ozzy as he's slipping away, and how he never told Gerard that he misses him. He wonders what will happen to all his friends when Pete kills him, and hopes that they won’t try anything that’ll put them in danger, although he knows that they probably will.

Pete is smiling at him, hands squeezing impossibly tighter. Frank’s stomach burns where the blade cut him, and he doesn’t think he can hold on much longer. And then Pete starts to talk, his voice loud and deep and drilling into his brain. “And I heard the noise of thunder. And I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, ’come and see’. And I looked and behold, a pale horse. And his name that sat on him was Death. And Hell followed with him. “

Frank gasps for breath, and it wheezes painfully through his narrow windpipe.

“Save your prayers, Frank. They can’t help you now. Once I’m done with you, I’m gonna tear your little carnival apart, piece by piece, one carnie at a time,” Pete grits out like he can read Frank’s mind.

Something snaps in Frank at Pete’s complacent voice. He drops his heavy hand on Pete’s face and starts clawing at his skin anywhere he can reach. A hot flash of anger flares up inside him when he thinks about Pete hurting his friends, adrenaline kicking in. He can’t let Pete hurt anyone else. He can’t let him win.

Wonderful, pure energy blooms just under his palm on Pete’s warm skin, and he starts drawing it into him without really even realizing it, like his body knows what his mind can’t remember anymore. And it’s like a rush of air to his lungs; the dark blotches clouding his vision clear, and his head feels surprisingly light. In a moment of clarity he stabs the dagger in Pete's chest, splitting the tattoo where the tree's branches separate from the trunk, and Pete lets go of him, crying out from the pain.

Frank falls to his knees by Pete's side and draws air in shaky stutters, watching as Pete thrashes and wails. Blood gushes from the wound, dyeing the crumbled stems and leaves under his body midnight blue.

"I'm sorry," Frank croaks, rubbing at his throat, because Pete's eyes have turned back to brown and there’s genuine fear in those eyes. The river of blood is slowly turning purple, then crimson, and as Pete draws his last breath, he grabs Frank's hand and squeezes it, face relaxing as life drains out of him. "I'm so sorry."

He meets Ashlee at the edge of the field. Her face is wet with tears like she already knows that her brother is gone. She doesn't say anything to him, but she touches his arm gently as she passes him, and Frank watches her for a while until the stems block her from view.

Back in the carnival the rousties have already started clearing up the area, taking down the tents and loading them up in trailers. Only the main tent and Romance are still standing tall, and Frank finds Dan and Jepha smoking in the shadow of the large Ferris wheel, leaning against each other, shoulder’s touching.

"Everything alright?" Dan asks mellowly, like he's completely oblivious to everything that's taken place here, but his eyes are sharp and attentive.

"I think so, yeah," Frank says, and Jepha frowns, eyeing Frank's stomach. Frank looks down at himself and gasps, running his hand down his wet shirt, checking himself for damage until he remembers that he already took care of the wound. "It's nothing," Frank says, but he understands how gruesome he must look. His shirt is bloody and sticking to his skin, but the cut's just a distant memory. "I healed myself in the field. I'm fine."

"All's good?" Jepha asks and Frank nods; his chest feels light again, the pressure that's been building up all these months is finally letting go.

"All's good."

"No more evil preacher?"

Frank shakes his head and gives them a rueful smile. "No more evil preacher."

Jepha nods and smiles, closing his eyes against the sun.

"Have either of you seen Gerard? Or Brian and Bob?"

"Sorry, man," Dan says, and Frank realizes there's real worry in his eyes.

"Shit. I was hoping they'd all be back by now."

Maja walks out of the tent and joins them, looking irritated, her eyebrows drawn in a sharp line. “They headed that way,” she says, pointing at the valley. “Brian and Bob.”

Jepha slinks up from the ground and turns back to Dan, yanking him up by the hands.

"Let's go, then," Dan says without a beat, dusting his jeans.

And Frank is so grateful, but there are people still looming by the tent that he thinks deserve some kind of explanation.

"Jimmy and Lindsey are taking care of it now," Maja says, following Frank's gaze. "I already got most of them out, but I couldn’t deal with all those lunatics anymore."

"We're Gerard's friends, too. We wanna find him just as much as you do," Dan points out. He throws his arm around Frank's shoulders and starts walking him in the direction of the valley, not giving him a chance to protest.

The valley's mostly vacant, although some Okies are standing out by their temporary homes, looking worried and confused, waiting for their preacher to return from the carnival. Frank hopes no one will stop them to ask what happened; he doesn’t feel like explaining them that their ‘Messiah’ is gone.

They find Brian and Bob outside the Simpson's house, and Frank can't conceal his worry anymore when he realizes Gerard is not with them. He gets a bad flashback to the first time Gerard went missing and he couldn't find him even after driving for hours.

"Where the fuck is he? He can't have just disappeared!"

"Get yourself together, man," Bob says, gripping Frank's arms. "We'll find him."

"Come on. Let's get moving," Brian says. "There's still places left to be checked."

As they're walking down a trampled path, Jepha fixes their attention on a small structure standing in the distance. It looks like a storage room, small and windowless but still big enough to fit a car or dozens of boxes. There's a man by the door with a rifle on his shoulder, looking bored and annoyed but still attentive of his surroundings.

"What do you think?"

"Worth checking out," Brian replies, and they go around the back, sneaking close while trying to keep out of the guard's line of sight.

"We can take him," Bob hisses, and Frank nods, his heart hammering in his chest. He just knows Gerard is in that storage space. He has to be.

"Hold on a sec," Brian whispers, stepping in front of them. "Let's be smart about this. He has a gun."

"Fuck that," Maja says. She’s picked up a heavy, fist-sized stone and looking at the guard with one eye closed, taking aim. She chucks the stone before Brian has a chance to react, and it hits the man in the head, causing him to stumble to the ground.

"Well. That works." Brian jogs up to him and grabs the rifle while the guard struggles to sit up with one hand pressing against the bloody bruise on the back of his head. Brian aims the rifle at the man, releasing the safety catch with a click. “Don’t fucking move.”

The guard grumbles, putting his hands up in the air, and Maja grabs the thread of yarn holding her hair up and ties the guard's wrists together behind his back.

Bob and Jepha are trying to kick down the door. The hinges whine and rattle, but the door won't budge.

"Gerard?" Frank calls out, and Gerard's voice sounds behind the door, relieved but frantic to get out.

"Gerard? Stand back," Brian warns. "I'm going to shoot the door open, okay? Let me know when it’s safe to shoot."

“Okay,” comes Gerard’s muffled reply. “Go for it.”

Brian cocks the rifle and pulls the trigger, the lock blowing off after a couple of shots to it.

Gerard's leaning up against a wall, keeping the pressure away from his left foot.

Frank runs to him and throws his arms around his back, smushing his nose into Gerard's neck.

"I thought I'd never find you."

"Really? Because I was sure that you would." Gerard squeezes him tight but soon pulls back, worry in his eyes. He holds Frank at an arm’s length and pales at the sight of Frank’s stomach. Frank looks down at his cut shirt, blood sticking it to his stomach. It looks somehow even worse now that the blood has started to dry and turn brown. The cut is wide, spanning the fabric from side to side.

“Shit, Frank—“

“No, Gee, god. I’m okay. I took care of it. I’m fine,” Frank jumps to reassure him. Gerard pushes his hand into Frank’s shirt through the cut, touching his skin, fingertips grazing his healed stomach. He exhales shakily and wraps Frank up in a tight hug, pressing his face in the crook of Frank’s neck.

“He did that to you, didn’t he? Jesus.”

“M’fine, Gee,” Frank mumbles, bunching up Gerard’s shirt in his fist. “I took care of it.”

Brian’s grinning at them both, looking kind of proud, and he grabs Frank's shoulder, patting him on the back. "You did good, kid. I mean it."

“You did good too,” Frank says, and he means it more than they’ll probably ever realize. “All of you.”

"Come on," Bob says, throwing his arm around Brian's shoulders as he starts steering him out of the storage, Maja, Jepha and Dan trailing behind them. "I think we should be ready to get on the road by the end of the day. I don't know about you, but I could use a change of scenery."

Gerard's smiling at Frank, and when they're alone he slips his hand into his, rolling his thumb over Frank's fingers.

"You're hurt," Frank says and Gerard shakes his head, squeezing Frank's fingers tight.

"It's just a sprain. I'm fine. You were right about Peter. I should have listened to you, I was being stupid."

"You were grieving," Frank breathes out, searching Gerard's eyes while Gerard tugs him closer. “You thought he was helping you.”

"Yeah, well I still should have known better. And being locked up in this storage—“

"Why’d he do it?" Frank demands, hot anger flaring up inside him as he thinks about Gerard locked up and alone here. The storage is dark and messy, there are spider webs in the corners and the space is cramped with cardboard boxes so there’s practically no room to breathe.

"When I figured out he wasn't what he claimed to be, I guess he didn't want me exposing him or something."

"He fucking locked you up here."

"I saw Mikey," Gerard says, his voice thick with emotion. "He –- he appeared to me when I felt the loneliest, keeping me company, making sure I was okay. He still thinks the world of you," Gerard smiles, eyes shiny like wet glass.

"Gerard," is all Frank knows to say.

They spend the rest of the day sitting on the back of Brian's truck, watching their friends packing things up, getting ready to leave. Frank’s finally back in his dungarees and a clean shirt, and Gerard’s ankle is wrapped up and supported with a scarf. The sun is slanting shadows on Gerard's face, and the light breeze ruffles up the short hairs on the crown of his head. He doesn't appear as sad as before he left the carnival, but sadness is still present in him, lurking just under the shell he has built around himself. Frank knows Gerard isn't putting up appearances because of him, his grief has simply taken a new form. He just needs more time to heal. Mikey's death is still too fresh on everyone's memory. But at least now he's with people who genuinely care about him, people who love him; he's come back home.

They’ve lit a tealight candle for Mikey, and it’s softly burning in the cup of Gerard’s palm where he can protect the flame from the wind.

“I couldn’t bring myself to do this earlier,” Gerard says, staring at the candle. “I just wanted to forget everything,” he trails off, blinking fast, tears caught in his lashes. But after a beat he says, “One thing Peter was right about: I should never have tried to shut Mikey out of my mind. I don’t ever wanna forget him.”

Frank drapes his arm around Gerard’s shoulders and pulls him in, careful not to jostle him too much so that the candlelight stays alive. He presses his cheek against the side of Gerard’s head and looks at the flame, marveling at how brightly the tealight burns.

"Listen, I know what you said about the carnival, and how only bad things happen here," Frank starts, and he realizes that he's nervous, his heart beating fast against his chest. "But you are back, right? Everybody misses you, everybody wants you here. This is where you belong."

Gerard turns to look at him, his wet lashes dusting his cheeks. He studies Frank closely for a while like he’s searching for something, gaze so intense Frank has to struggle to hold it. A small smile has started to ghost Gerard’s face, and it crinkles the corners of his eyes as it grows wider. "I'll tell you what,” he says, shrugging out of Frank’s arms as he carefully places the candle on the plywood bed. The delicate flame flickers wildly for a while but doesn’t blow out. “I'll stay if you stay."

Something warm and bright blooms in Frank’s chest and it tugs a huge grin out of him. He lets out a relived chuckle as he holds out his hand for Gee to shake. "Deal," he says and then can't help but throw his arms around Gerard again, pulling him in for a tight hug. He presses his cheek on Gerard's shoulder and bunches his shirt in his fist, just holding him close. He feels a kiss on the top of his head, and then Gerard cups his neck, thumb tracing the shell of his ear.

"You'll be okay," Frank says, cupping the wing of his shoulder blade. "I just know you will."

Gerard nods, squeezing Frank's shoulder. "We'll both be okay. I know I shouldn't have run away like that. I missed everyone as soon as I left, but I couldn't go back either."

"I get it, you needed a change of scenery. When my mom died, I couldn't stay at the farm either. I felt like I was suffocating there. And then you guys found me, and now I can't imagine being anywhere else."

Gerard is smiling softly, and there's something proud in his gaze that makes Frank feel warm and welcome. "I'm glad you stayed with us."

"Me too," Frank grins, and just then they see Brian and Bob heading their way, all smiles and easy banter.

"Ready to go?" Brian asks, and Gerard nods, beaming at him.

"You wanna get in a trailer?"

"Nah," Gerard says, pulling back a little, finding a comfortable spot on the back of the truck and settling there. "I think I'm gonna stay out here with Frank."

"As you wish," Brian nods and crosses to the driver's side, getting in and waiting for Bob to take the shotgun seat.

"We're all happy you're here," Bob says. He seems almost embarrassed, and he's taken to rubbing his healed wrist again like he needs something to do with his hands. "And that means both of you.”

A wide smirk spreads on Frank's face, and he clutches his chest mockingly, snickering at Bob. "Bob, I'm touched."

"Shut up," Bob says, rolling his eyes.

Frank jumps down from the truck and throws his arms around Bob, hugging him tight.

"There, there," he says as Bob makes an indignant noise at the back of his throat, patting him on the back.

"I hate you," Bob says, and Frank smiles, nodding his head.

"I know, I know. And if by 'hate' you mean 'love', I hate you too."

"Okay, get away from me, little man," Bob says, pushing Frank aside, but he's smiling, dimples and all.

Frank settles back by Gerard's side as Brian starts the truck, resting his head on Gerard's shoulder. The days are starting to catch up with him and he feels suddenly very tired, like he could sleep all through the rest of the day, and the following night under the open, starry sky. And for the first time in months, he doesn't feel afraid of falling asleep. He's looking forward to it here with Gerard on the back of the truck as the carnival moves on.

 

_End_


End file.
